Where The Lightning Strikes
by Azzamonkeyman
Summary: Rose had built an entirely new life for herself, and a prosperous one at that. She was the biggest acting sensation in decades, and she seemed to be living the American dream. Jack was a blue collar man, just like everyone else in the army in the 1940's. But a chance encounter with a ghost from his past would stop him in his tracks. Can lightning really strike the same place twice?
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

It can take just seconds to fall in love with someone... But it can take a lifetime to get over them once they're gone.

This was a lesson that a 45 year old Rose Dawson knew all too well. The year is 1939, and Germany and Britain are having heated discussions over a possible declaration of war. But in New York, it didn't really matter. The hustle and bustle of this ever thriving City could never be brought to a hault, war or no war.

Rose had adapted to life in the Big Apple ever since departing the Carpathia on that cold, rainy night of April 1912. She headed straight from the ship and into a homeless shelter with many other survivors who had nowhere else to go. With the Heart of the Ocean burning a hole in Cal's overcoat pocket, she had been tempted so many times to pawn it off and live off of the money... but she wasn't Rose DeWitt Bukater anymore. Cal's money couldn't save her now. She was a different person, and she had to start thinking that way. As far as Rose Dawson was concerned, there was no man named Caledon Hockley. Not that she knew of. And she never knew her mother, or her father. She grew up in an orphanage, adopted at the age of 10 and raised by a woman named Trudy Bolt. Trudy and Rose both moved from Philadelphia to London, where she lived with Trudy for 8 happy years, until Trudy sadly died of Tuberculosis. Rose took what money was left to her in Trudy's Will and fled Ireland, feeling alone and wishing to go back to Philadelphia to try and find that piece of herself that was missing. So she booked a passage on the RMS Titanic... and the rest is history.

Would anyone buy that story? Rose wasn't even sure if she bought it. It was a terribly tragic life to lead. Both parents, either dead or unloving towards you, adopted and taken to an alien country, and then your adoptive mother dies, and when you try to travel to your homeland the ship your on sinks and 1500 people die, you almost being one of them... it would make a great movie, but Rose felt she needed to have a background to make her new character seem more real.

But what of the second name? Why isn't her name Rose Bolt? Well of course, in London she met a man. A man named Jack Dawson. They met when she was 16 and married when she was 17. He was the love of her life, so full of charm and charisma, talent and tenderness. But he was one of the unfortunate 1500 souls that perished on April 15th... so not only is she missing both her parents, her real family, her adoptive mother, she is also missing a husband. Oh it only got worse!

So with this story in mind, repeating it to herself night after night in her make-shift bed upon the floor, she got a sense of her situation. Penniless, homeless, heartbroken and alone... things could only get better, and they did! There was a "Waitress Wanted" advertisement in a restaurant window. She jumped at the opportunity, and as she approached the desk, before she had even opened her mouth, the owner of the establishment told her she was hired. She looked able, happy and attractive... he was right on 2 of them at least. She was still miserable inside, but showing it wasn't going to help anyone.

She worked every hour that God sent her way, and that helped her to pay for an apartment just a couple of blocks away from the restaurant. She was glad to be standing on her own two feet again, out of the homeless shelter that so many of Titanic's survivors still dwelled in. It was July of 1912 by this point, and a bright, warm Summer meant that long walks in Central Park were a welcome break from dishing out orders and collecting empty plates in Antonio's Diner. Her boss was a lovely man of Italian origin who always made Rose feel like part of the family within the workplace. The other waitresses had been working there for much longer, and she was intimidated by their superior posture and ability to stack plates taller than the skyscrapers outside and STILL carry them with ease. But she soon learned the trade just as well as them, and the generous tips of satisfied customers were always a nice surprise. They helped her buy nice clothes and the little things that she didn't have any more. She had to start from the bottom and work her way up.

Before April 15th 1912, she had everything, but now the Ocean owned everything that she had. Dresses, shoes, money, her precious Picasso paintings, her jewellery. All she had left was the ball and chain of the blue rock of ice in Cal's overcoat pocket which hung on the back of her bedroom door, and never left her sight. It was a constant minder of what she once had, and what she never wanted to be trapped in again. Sometimes when she was out and about in the City, she's see a man who looked like Cal, and her heart would literally try to jump out of her throat and she would stop in her tracks, only to realize she was mistaken. And she often thought of her mother and if a phone call would be out of the question. But she had to let go of the past... she had to let go... she had already let go of the most important man in her life... the rest would soon fade into nothing but a distant memory.

In the Spring of 1922, 10 years after that fateful night in the North Atlantic, Rose was slaving away in Antonio's Diner as usual, her shift only an hour or so away from finishing. New York had become an exciting place by now, with the "roaring twenties" in full swing. She adored the Art and Music movements that were happening in all of the clubs and bars, and she could now afford to go shopping with her friends from work who she had grown close to. After finding a dress with enough razzle dazzle, and their hair and makeup done, they would hit the clubs and enjoy the live entertainment and stage acts. This new revival in art, music and the nightlife was a great way of dealing with the morbid thoughts of the War that had just ended a couple of years before. Rose knew several men that went to fight and didn't return home. It was this particular Friday night however when she was closing up shop that she realized she was being watched. There was a man who had been in the Diner all day, ordering coffees, ordered his lunch AND dinner, and all day he had been watching the girls and writing notes. Rose was curious as to what he was doing, but he was a paying customer and a generous tipper, so she didn't complain or question him. But when she told the man that he had to drink up and go as she was shutting up shop, he finally spoke:

"What's your name, Kiddo?"

"Dawson, Rose Dawson." She replied coyly.

"Perfect! What a beautiful name! I knew with a face like yours that there'd be a name to match." The man jumped up from the table and held out a hand. "Nice to meet you Rose! I'm Richard Calvert, but you can call me Rich." He said as he straight his silk tie and dusted down his gold buttons upon his waistcoat.

Rose laughed slightly. "Rich? Is that your nickname or your financial situation?"

He thought on that question for a moment. "Little bit of both to be honest... not to brag."

"Oh, please, don't hold back! I earn two dollars an hour and make at least ten dollars alone on tips each day. I'm not offended."

"Good... but hearing you say that, it sounds so wrong! Two dollars an hour? You should be making more than that!" He picked up the countless papers he had been working on and handed them to her.

"What's this?" She asked, befuddled by this mysterious, yet charming and somewhat handsome man.

"It's a play I've been working on. It's set in a diner, and I wanted to sit in her today and listen to how you girls work. Your mannerisms, your phrasing, 'two large paddy-wacks and a wigwam to go!'" He imitated Rhonda's thick New York accent, the oldest worker in the place.

Rose laughed at his impression til her cheeks hurt. "My God, you really have been absorbing the environment in here."

"It seems like a great little place. It's no wonder business is always booming in here... but there's one thing in particular that caught my eye today." He stepped forward ever so slightly.

"If it's the coffee stains in the mugs then I can only apologise. Antonio refuses to buy new ones, and those stains just won't come out. I've tried. He says they add 'character'." She sat his script on the table and went to pick up his mug and plate.

Quickly, he moved his hand down onto hers and stopped Rose in her tracks. "I dunno if you're blind... but I've not been able to take my eyes off of you all day... Haven't you noticed?"

Rose felt herself blushing and pulled her hand away shyly. "I can't say I have, no... All I see in a days work is spare change and dirty dishes."

Richard smiled warmly at her remark. "You see? That right there!"

"What?"

"There's just something about you... I dunno what it is, but I can feel it... I've watched you interact with customers, some complete strangers and other regulars... but each one you treat as an individual, not just another person. You have a way with people, and they love that... they look into those deep blue eyes like the sun will never go down. They listen to your gentle, sweet, voice, but behind it all there's a sharp focus at all times, making sure you don't mess up or disappoint anyone... you don't mean to do it... but you make everyone you meet fall for you... You're special, Rose... you're so special."

She was speechless. . . No one had ever complimented her, or spoke to her, or looked at her in such a way since... suddenly, old feelings and extinguished flames came rushing back all at once, and she turned around and walked towards the kitchen with Richard's mug and plate, distracting herself. "Thank you very much, Richard, but I really should be-"

"I want you to be the leading role in my new play!" He cut her off.

. . . once again, words failed her. She almost dropped the china in her hand. "What?"

"You have a look that most Hollywood broads would die for, and a voice that an entire theatre would adore listening to for days... I know I adore it." He winked cheekily.

Again, she felt herself blush. "Why, thank you very much, it's a lovely gesture, but... I couldn't possibly."

"How come?"

"Well... for a start, I'm not an actress."

"Everyone's got to start somewhere."

"I've never acted in my life!"

"There's a first time for everything!"

She knew that she was losing, and in retreat she headed for the kitchen. "I couldn't possibly hold a leading role in a play."

"Rose, you hold a leading role in this place every day of every week, and people ALWAYS come back to see more of you."

"They want the food, not me."

"That's not true. The food isn't the best I've ever tasted... it's not the worst, but it's not worth coming back day in and day out for. Rose the way they look at you, it's not creepy at all, but they admire you! And I would be paying more than this place."

"Being an actress is different though... I'd have to learn lines and remember them, I'd end up forgetting them all on stage." She was into the kitchen now, and noticed that he had followed her in, but she didn't care. She was enjoying arguing with him... Cal would have hit her by now... although Cal wouldn't be offering her a job. "Wait... you'd be paying me?"

Richard nodded. "Rose, you remember lines everyday! 'May I take your order?' and 'would you like fries with that?' You don't realize it, but everyday is a play! The whole world is a stage, and all us people are merely the players in this never ending story."

As she washed the dishes, she took in what he was saying. All her engaged life with Cal she had lied to him, saying she loved, and telling him that she was attracted to him, and tell people she was happy and looked forward to the wedding... was there really any difference between acting and lying? In fact, she had been acting since 1912. Rose Dawson was a fictional character that Rose had grown into... perhaps it wasn't so hard after all.

"Rose, please! I'm begging you! I've started writing this character with you in mind, and now I've given her your voice, your looks, your mannerisms, and no one else can play her but you!" He waited for a response and watched Rose as she tried desperately to rid the mugs of those mars, and tried her hardest to ignore him without laughing. He got down onto one knee, and Rose looked round at him in comic horror.

"My goodness, Richard! We've only just met!" she giggled.

"Rose Dawson... would you do me the honour of being the Star of my play and make me the happiest man on Earth?" He clasped his hands together like a beggar, pouting his lip when she averted her gaze from him.

"If I say yes will you get up from the floor?" She sighed.

In an instant Richard was up on his feet and holding Rose tightly as he hugged her. Her hands dripping wet and covered with bubbles she didn't know what to do. "You will NOT regret this sweetie, I promise! I'm gonna make you a star!"

"You may as well try. I guess I have nothing left to lose, apart from my dignity perhaps."

"You'll be brilliant, Rose, I know it!" He went to hug her again, but she raised a finger, stopping him. She took a hand towel, dried her hands, dropped the towel, and the signalled for him to hug her. He grabbed her around her waist, picked her up, kissed her on the cheek and spun her around.

Rose squealed in delight. "Put me down you lunatic!"

When he was finished he sat her down and ran out the kitchen, skipping with joy and shouting out in happiness. Mission accomplished! Richard had his Star, and Rose had a better paying job to work on alongside her waitressing job. Things seemed to be going very well for the 28 year old red head. Little did she know just how far things would go for her in the acting industry.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Rehearsals started the week after her encounter with Richard for his play, _'Dining with Destiny,' _where a young women working as a waitress meets a mysterious gentleman who whisks her off her feet and shows her that there's more to life than the normal 9 to 5 way of living, but he also teaches this beautiful waitress the greatest lesson of all... how to live, laugh and love.

Rehearsals were long and tiring and were mostly weekends and evenings during the week. She took some time off from her REAL waitressing job, which Antonio completely understood. The regular customers missed her smiling face, but her boss was so proud of his red headed wonder. He knew that she deserved more than he could give her. The play opened in the late Autumn of 1922, and the posters that had been created to advertise the show attracted a lot of attention, with Roses' face being right in the centre of the page. Walls on the street, shop windows and restaurant doors all showed of Roses' face, and it was hard to see the poster over all the heads of passersby who took an interest in the new talent on the acting scene.

Tickets sold like hot cakes, and on the second night of showing, a theatre critic from 'The New York Times' came to view the play, expecting nothing but a pretty face and an empty head. He couldn't have been more wrong. His review wasn't to slate the play, but to "congratulate Richard Calvert on his inspiring, wonderfully touching and unique script." Also, to "welcome the divine Rose Dawson into the industry. For her first play, she was astounding! Believable, loveable and memorable! These aren't the usual reviews I give out, but I was moved by her performance. She had me glued like a bee to honey, or a moth to a flame. If she keeps this up, she'll go far in this game!"

And the review didn't go unnoticed. More and more directors from New York were appearing out of the woodwork, desperate to have Rose onboard for their next play. She loved acting, and really enjoyed taking on a new and challenging role. One of her next roles was to portray a woman who dressed as a man in the early 20th Century in order to get a well paid job, only to look after her younger siblings, but in the process she falls for her boss who still thinks she's a young man. This play was particularly challenging for the fact that she had to make herself cry, but for Rose that wasn't a problem. Thinking of that dark, cold, life changing night on April 15th 1912, a decade ago, helped the tears to run down her face in seconds. "Petticoats and Waistcoats" opened in the Winter of 1923, and as her third play, with ANOTHER leading role, she was paid triple what she was paid for "Dining With Destiny." She was so sought after in New York that directors would bid for her like a priceless vase at auction. But Rose didn't choose her roles based on the wage. She read all the scripts and chose the one that jumped out her as being the best or most interesting and enjoyable.

However, by this time, she was romantically involved with Richard Calvert, so she didn't look through all of these scripts on her own. Richard was not only her lover, he was her manager. He stayed with her most nights in her apartment across the road from Antonio's Diner. There, business had exploded unlike anything the Italian boss had ever seen before! They all wanted a glimpse of "the red head with the curves." Antonio would simply reply, "That's Rose to you lot!" He still looked out for her, and since he wasn't exactly short of staff, he was happy to let her pick and choose her own hours to work. She never left the place, for she had made memories and friends there. Leaving would be hard to do after all they had done for her since the sinking.

Late 1924, and Rose and Richard are sitting in their new apartment overlooking the Hudson River. It was further away from The Diner, but the fact that Rose had bought a new car and Richard had taught her how to drive it meant this wasn't an issue. She was the happiest she had ever been. She was in love, she was living with the man of her dreams, and what was simply a request from a wannabe director had become a career in the making, and it wasn't over yet. Far from it! Richard had been secretly writing a screenplay, telling Rose that it was "just some possessed scribbles from his overactive imagination... nothing at all!" But on that Summer afternoon in 1924 when the phone rang, Rose answered it and got the shock of her life.

"Hello, this is Robert Marshall from The Hollywood Observer, I'm looking for a Rose Dawson."

Rose couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You're speaking to her."

"Ah great, well, we've had a film script sent to us in the mail from a Richard Calvert, and we're in love with it!"

"That's great news!" giving him a thumbs up, she looked over at Richard, who knew all about this phone call, and what was to come next. "He's a fabulous writer, there's no denying it."

"He's recommended a few actors and actresses to play the roles in this particular piece and your top of the list, Miss Dawson."

Her jaw hit the floor. "A... _film_ script? ... _ME?" _She gasped and looked over at Robert, who was smiling smuggle and reading a newspaper, pretending he had no idea who was on the phone. Rose knew he was behind all this, and she threw a cushion at him in excitement.

"Would you be interested in coming on over here and doing a few screen tests, a photo shoot, a script run through and-"

"Wait!" she interrupted him. "You want me to come to... Hollywood?" she was almost crying, sitting with the phone in her hand, shaking, filled with disbelief.

"I'd be honoured. Miss Dawson, I hope you don't mind my saying so, but the photos he has enclosed of you are simply stunning, and I've had talent scouts tell me that you're the talk of the town! You'll fit right in over here!"

For the next few minutes on the phone, Rose couldn't breathe let alone speak. When she got off the phone, she had times, dates, free train tickets to be delivered in the mail within the next two weeks and a whole new wardrobe waiting for her after she gave them her sizes. She put the phone back onto the receiver, look over at Richard, and flew off of the sofa and on top of him, smothering him in kisses, thanking him with tears in her eyes. When he finally managed to break free he got down onto one knee, dug deep into his coat pocket, and produced the shiniest rock that Rose had ever seen... well, the shiniest rock on a ring. Necklaces were a different story. Her eyes began to well up again, and without any hesitation, apart from the brief second when she stepped back and took in the beautiful image before her, she quietly replied, "yes, Richard... of course I'll marry you." The last time someone proposed to her, it was all staged by her mother to ease their debts. But now she was in love, and had never felt this way for anyone, and she knew that he loved her too.

Rose said goodbye to all of her friends, the hardest of all being Antonio, who cheekily asked her to sign a photo of the two of them for when she was "A brighter star than the Sun in the sky." Rose thanked him for everything to which he replied, "My dear... you did this all by yourself." She showed her friends the engagement ring, and they all gasped over its enormity and dazzling shine. They were all so proud of her, but tears were shed. These girls had all helped her through the most difficult of times, and so, in memory of the City that, in Roses' eyes, had raised her to be the woman she was today, she order two large paddy-wacks and a wigwam to go from Rhonda, who was pushing 60 and was still working in the same diner she always had.

Rose took one last stroll around New York, Richard buying her a horse drawn carriage to do so, and as the sun began to set over the City that had been so kind to her, she and her new fiancé made their way to the train station. Rose felt a strange sensation as she watched the New York skyline fade into the distance with each click of the horses hooves. It wasn't the feeling she felt when she left Philadelphia to head for England back in 1912, or even the feeling she felt when she had swam clear of the Titanic and found refuge on floating debris. It was the feeling of leaving something behind that, wasn't only a part of you, but had MADE you. Of course, Philly was her birthplace, it would always be in her blood, and surviving a shipwreck never leaves your mind completely, but New York had been so kind to her, and it hadn't broke her... it had built her into a strong, fierce, independent, entirely new woman. She had met so many fascinating wonderful, loving people... she had met her fiancé, and now as she held Richard's hand in the back of the carriage she felt a tear roll down her cheek.

Richard turned to see his blushing bride to be and noticed her tears. "Is everything alright, sweetheart?" He wiped away her tear and put a strong hand on her face, caressing her gently. "Are you sure this is what you want? We don't have to go, not if you don't want to. We can stay right here if you'd like."

"No, no... it's not that... I don't know what it is. I'm just being silly." Rose tried to laugh it off, but she couldn't help but feel so emotional and upset about leaving the City.

"This is a big change for you, I know... but it's also gonna be a big chance... for both of us."

She put her hand on top of his and felt his strong hold on her... but not possessive. It wasn't the kind of strength that Cal embodied, which was built upon money and temper. Richard's strength was different. It was more like magnetism. When Rose was around him, she felt drawn to him, like a beautiful orange moth towards a burning flame. Cal dragged her into his clutches, making her want to break free. Richard held his arms out for her, and allowed Rose to decided when she would fall into his embrace... She had already fallen for him, and the dazzling diamond on her finger was the icing on the cake. The shimmering blue rock in her handbag however, hidden away in a secret pouch that only she knew about, was insurance. A constant reminder of what she once was and what she now had... and as far as Rose Dawson, soon to be Rose Calvert, was concerned... she had EVERYTHING.

But the past always has a funny way of catching up with you when you least expect it... This was a lesson that a 45 year old Rose Dawson knew all too well. The year is 1939, and Germany and Britain are having heated discussions over a possible declaration of war.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

I possible declaration of war had overnight grossly transformed into a finite reality of full scale warfare on all fronts. Bloodshed, bombs and bombardments all included, and it seemed that no one could escape, whether they were on the battle front or the home front. Working in a factory, in a pie shop, or clearing up dead bodies from No Man's Land, the war was everywhere, and everyone felt it. Like a post-apocalyptic scene, towns, villages and cities stood, or lay, in absolute devastation. What was once a prestigious Town Hall was now a smouldering pile of rubble. The bowling green and swing park down the road was now cordoned off, as men in white suits worked day and night in a desperate attempt to diffuse a live, yet unexploded bomb, dropped by the German's in their most recent blitz.

However, this was only the scene in most of Britain, mainly Clydesdale, Scotland and London, England, being the worst hit. Where better to destroy than the largest ship-building yard in the United Kingdom, and the home of the British monarchy itself? At night, the metal birds took flight and flew overseas, invading the air space of innocent civilians, killing them blindly from high above as the trap doors opened and the deadly capsules poured down in blanket formations. Row upon row of bombs... 3...2...1... An eruption of light, a shuddering of the Earth, crumbling, screams... and then silence.

The horror of the War had travelled across to the sympathetic eyes and ears of the U.S.A, with the helpful aid of radio and newspaper of course. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the US president at the time, also shared the chorus of sympathy for their overseas allies, but for the present moment, stayed a safe distance away and watched the evil unfold from their beds, tucked up tightly, kissed goodnight, their house still standing the sky a deep blue, rather than a burning blood red. However, as sympathetic as the Americans were, they still generously sold ammunitions, bomb casing, shells, guns, bullets, to _BOTH_ sides. Germany _AND_ Britain. No favouritism, but then again, no _REAL_ sympathy. Not really. War was a man's game, and showing emotion was seen as weakness. Money, land and power was all that mattered. It was a 6 year long game of chess, and the soldiers of all countries merely pawns, protecting their Fuhrer, Kings, and Queens alike.

One man however, who couldn't just sit back and do nothing was a 44 year old man, with tanned, weather beaten skin, a slight, ever so slight belly, yet toned and well built, fairly tall with trimmed dirty blonde hair, shaven at the sides and combed neatly along the top, parting to the side. Laughter lines prominent, a flawless complexion now sketched upon with lines of life and experience, good and bad. His blue eyes scanned the poster of Uncle Sam. Apparently his country needed him, and he wasn't going to say no. All his life he had been a fighter. Why stop now? He used to love travelling the world. What better way to see the world once more? He was tired of his dead end 9 to 5 job, and even then it could be 9 to 9. It was Hell, and surely life in the trenches couldn't be much worse... could it? There was only one way to find out.

"Name please?" The tired looking man at the desk within the recruitment Office asked.

"Dawson, Jack Dawson." The man replied, itching his bearded face.

"Age, date of birth, occupation and any medical conditions or previous medical conditions we should know of?" The man spoke like a drone, quick and precise; expertly reciting the script he had learned so many recruits ago. He never looked Jack in the eyes however, always writing down what Jack said as he said it.

"I'm 44, not too old yet I hope."

"Appropriate age..." The man looked up and down his nose through his squint spectacles to inspect Jack's physique. "Would you mind removing your shirt, Sir?"

"Huh?"

"Visual fitness inspection."

"Ah, I see." And Jack obediently obeyed. One button after the other, he removed his blue collar shirt, revealing a carpeted chest of soft blonde fur, a silky soft tanned body, the slight remains of what looks to be a ribcage, hidden by several years of comfort eating and lack of exercise after being attached to an office chair for the past 20 years. He was fit, but for a man of his age, he was incredibly fit. Broad shoulders, thick arms, biceps that any woman would swoon for and... "What's that?" the man pointed his pencil to Jack's right nipple. "Is that a barcode?"

"It's a... a prison tag actually."

"Prison, eh?" Again, the man took notes, on a separate sheet this time. A yellow sheet, seeming somewhat more intimidating than the previous pink sheet. "Offence?"

"Petty theft." Jack was not ashamed. He was ashamed he had been caught, but after he was brought back to New York aboard the Carpathia, a blue, quivering, breathing yet half dead mess, he had to find a way of living. No way was he going to live in a homeless shelter. He would rather have died on that chunk of wood.

"Is that all, may I ask?" He needn't have asked if he could ask... it was his job after all.

"Yes... that's all." Jack lied.

"Okay, so where were we... occupation?"

"I'm a stockbroker." He tried to sound as if he didn't totally resent his profession.

"And how do you find it, Mr Dawson?"

Oh, the pretence continued? Challenge accepted. "It's enjoyable, Sir. Better than prostitution I always say." Jack laughed nervously. His interrogator looked less impressed. "Well, I don't _ALWAYS _say it... just... sometimes, ya know?" he dug the hole deeper, hoping that soon someone would take his shovel and knock him out with it.

"Yes, well... Date of Birth?" He did his best to change the subject.

Jack was thankful. "December 16th 1897."

Pencil scratching paper, and then, "medical problems past or present?"

Jack thought on this for a moment, surprised that this particular thought came to mind at all. "Well, uh, in 1912 I was treated for hypothermia and pneumonia, and it's kinda affected my hearing ever since."

"Your hearing?" he noted this down.

"Yes, and my sight to an extent."

"We'll need to do a test of your vision then."

"Oh, and my breathing isn't what it once was, not by a long shot!"

"Your breathing?!" The man seemed shocked.

Jack was caught off guard. "Well... yeah... is that a bad thing?"

"In the army? Oh, most definitely! Do you know how vigorous and strenuous the army can be?"

"Oh yes Sir, I can assure you I do. I was homeless from the age of 15 to about 20... No difference really." Jack smiled and shrugged, as if his lungs had no problems whatsoever. Ever since he was found by the last returning lifeboat on that cold April morning, he was never the same, inside or out. He was ill, denied it his whole life, but he was. The decrease of physical activity was due to his job and his breathing difficulty. He hid it well, and was kicking himself now for even mentioning it.

"Does it trouble you greatly, Jack?" He sounded somewhat caring now. "_Health before stealth_ I always say." He half smiled. Standing up, he pulled his stethoscope over his head and approached Jack, who was still standing shirtless. He placed the cold silver circle to his chest and said, "Now breathe deeply for me, Mr Dawson. I know you're eager to get out there and join the troops, but we can't have you collapsing in the middle of a battlefield due to faulty lungs, can we?"

Jack took a large inhale of cool air through his nose, his ribs lifting and coming outwards. As he exhaled the air he replied, "No Sir, we definitely cannot have that."

"Hmmm..." He listened intently, his bald head shining now under the lightshade. "Doesn't sound overly abnormal... And I hope you do know that the things you see out there will be unlike any other site you've ever seen. You are aware of this?"

"I've seen the movies Sir, I'm sure I'll nail it!" he joked.

Again, his examiner was not amused. "This is not a game. The world is at war, Mr Dawson. One can no longer doubt that the dark powers of Germany are in monstrous attack against Europe and therefore the rest of us." He went back to his desk, putting away his shiny instrument, and began rifling through papers.

"I see in the papers that this Hitler guy is quite the asshole." Jack folded his arms and tried to sound as if he knew what he as talking about.

Suddenly, the man fell into his seat, like a rag doll losing all support from the hopeful hands of a child who had been holding him up. Darkness dragged him down into his coffee stained and blood soaked thoughts once again. "The sights you will see out there... miles upon miles of dead bodies... people, innocent people, screaming out in terror, praying, begging for mercy, for salvation... thousands of innocents thrown into the deep end, not knowing what they had in store when they climbed aboard the bandwagon that is War... Lovers frozen in their agony grin... I think the smell that rises shall be horrible." His eyes fixated on the floor, he then sharply lifted his head to look at Jack, who was stunned to say the least at this man's calm yet unnerving outburst. "The smell of death is always horrible... you have no idea."

"Oh Sir, believe me, I do... I do." Jack knew all about corpses, and seeing them in their hundreds. Seeing people screaming for help in their final moments of life. Lovers frozen in their agony grin... a sharp pain hit him in the lung like an icicle, stabbing him. He tried not to show it, but the sinking of the Titanic was always with him. Being a survivor was his own war, his own personal struggle, for he had to live each day knowing that he was alive, and his beloved Rose was not. She was a pile of chiffon, silk, yellow bones, and a pair of high heels on the sea bed. The thought alone made his stomach turn.

"I count them... the boys... that come in."

"You mean the new recruits?" Jack questioned curiously, realizing that this man was hurting... but why? He looked as if he was about to begin sobbing.

"No... the boys that come in with a tag on their toe and in a body bag... if there's enough of the left to even fill up a whole bag." It was enough the make the bile rise in his throat.

"I'm sorry, Sir... it must be difficult for you." Jack sympathised with him as he buttoned his shirt back up, a white band of a tan line around his aged wedding finger.

"'_Difficult'?_ . . . Mr Dawson, everyday as I write down this information, name, age, health issues, fitness evaluation, I'm just trying to make human what will soon be another sad statistic in a list of the dead... I'm formally signing away your soul to be killed... You're a handsome man Jack, you really are, a face for the silver screen . . . your skeleton will make a pretty one." And a single tear trickled down his withered cheek.

Jack stared on in dismay. What was he doing? Did he ever think things through? Maybe it was time to start.


	4. Chapter 4

Moving to Hollywood was the biggest and best decision Rose had made in her life... her new life anyway. She pondered on this thought as she sat in her home one summer evening in 1941, stroking her pet Dalmatian, Samuel.

They moved there in the Summer of 1926, and the Summer of 1926 was an eventful year indeed for Rose Dawson, newly dubbed Rose Calvert as she became a wife. She was in her first movie, a black noir about a female detective who follows the man she believes murdered her lover, soon to find out it was her husband, who then kills her. Going from stage to screen was a huge transition for Rose, but she loved it, and the pay was unbelievably generous, compared to previous pay packets that is. She enjoyed being "touched up" by the make-up artist and hair stylist, both of who were always on hand, standing by the Director's side(Richard in this case) obeying his every whim. She loved the script of course, seeing as it was written by her husband, and she loved her leading role. Martha Newman was feisty, driven, energetic and forceful. Everything Rose loved to be, and liked to think she was most of the time.

However, the one part of working on screen rather than stage that didn't appeal to her so much was the lack of substance. It was very structured and rigid. Film this. Film it again from this angle. Film it again with that strand of hair out of the way. Film it with dimmer lighting. Film it with brighter lighting. It seemed rather laborious at times. Not feeling the rush of the audience as they applauded, cried, laughed and gasped in reaction to the actor's performances took away from it all somewhat. The audience is what made it enjoyable for Rose, but now she was being stared at by a lifeless camera. On stage, you HAD to know your lines, and the adrenaline rush and feeling of accomplishment after remembering every line can never be replaced with acting for the camera. You can stop at any time to read your script, or get a prompt from the sidelines. On the stage you're on your own, relying solely on your memory, Rose had a marvellous memory thankfully. In the movies, you're being guided by the hand through the process. It was no hard feat. But nonetheless, she did enjoy it.

"_The Dead Read Head" _finished filming in 1927, and stayed in editing until late 1928, but due to lack of funds, and a growing depression in the economy, the film went unreleased and gathered dust in a box for several years. Richard was not pleased, and locked himself away in his office to wallow in self pity, scribbling ideas for new plays and movies. Rose tried her best to console him, telling him that things would get better.

Sadly, things didn't get better.

The Wall Street crash in October of 1929 hit everyone's interests, businesses and industries hard, and soon the economic disease spread worldwide. Big budget movies either wrapped up altogether, cut down their budget considerably, or went on hiatus for a while. People thought that it would pass, like a storm cloud. It would threaten to rain on everyone's parade, when in truth it was simply on a stroll, casting a brief shadow, soon to reveal the shining sun on the other side. Oh how wrong they were. It was so bad in its first year that one day, as Rose was reading the morning newspaper, she spotted a familiar face in a photograph, and as she dropped her glass of orange juice to the floor in shock, she read the article headline, **"CALEDON HOCKLEY, STEEL TYCOON, SHOOTS SELF IN MOUTH AFTER THE OVERNIGHT COLLAPSE OF HIS STEEL BUSINESS. WIFE AND CHILDREN LEFT DESTITUTE AND DISTRAUGHT!"**

Richard asked if she knew him, and she made up a quick lie about how shocked she was to see that people were actually taking their lives due to The Depression. It wasn't entirely false, but she was hardly going to tell him that she was once betrothed to the suicide victim.

In the meantime, Rose and Richard spent their time trying to enjoy themselves, take their minds off the situation. They were better off than most people at this time, and enjoyed going on weekend breaks, or month long vacations if they so wished. They had nothing holding them down in Hollywood.

One request from Rose was to go to the pier in Santa Monica, a place she had always wanted to go, but never had the means to until now. Married life was making her think of lost loves and ghosts from her past, and Richard was more than happy to take his radiant wife there when she asked. They spent the week there in a nearby hotel, spent nights in The La Monica Ballroom on the edge of the pier, dancing the night away, riding the rollercoaster until eventually Richard threw up, and of course, horse riding on the beach, right in the surf. Richard owned a camera, a wedding present from his father, and as Rose sat upon her dark, sturdy stallion he set up on the sand, is trousers rolled up to his knees, and he took a photograph of his wife, smiling widely, a puffy white shirt, a pony tail blowing in the wind, and one leg on each side. After the ride, Rose insisted they got a beverage to cool themselves down, but not the expensive wine that Richard offered to buy. No... Rose wanted cheap beer, and reluctantly, her husband agreed.

She loved the week she spent there, and it seemed to bring the two closer together, in the bedroom especially. Clearly months of tension being built up had ultimately lead to this. There was just something about the whole week... being on that beach... riding that horse... being out in the surf as the sun set over the pier... riding the rollercoaster... drinking cheap beer... the odd thing about it, funnily enough, was being with Richard. Almost 2 decades earlier, she had promised a young, penniless traveller that she would run away with him and visit this pier, and do all the things that she had done with Richard on the pier at Santa Monica, where Jack done portraits for 10 cents apiece. She felt almost guilty for going there without Jack, and living out their fun filled day with another man, as if he was watching down from above feeling left out and alone. It sounded absurd, and Rose tried to shake it off, but the more she tried to ignore it, the more it ate away at her... he was dead... she had to forget about him... maybe going there wasn't such a good idea after all.

The day they left, Rose took one last stroll down the pier, shoes in hand, wind in her hair, feeling the same air that Jack had breathed into his smoke filled lungs twenty years ago. Hearing the chattering and laughter and seagulls that he had heard back then. It was almost eerie, yet comforting. She got to the sand on the beach, and using a stick, she wrote the words, _'I STILL LOVE YOU, JACK'_ in the sand. She left it there, on the beach he loved so much. No doubt that with time, the footsteps of tourists and the rising tide had faded the message into nothingness, but doing it felt right. Hopefully he saw her write it, because it was true. He wanted her to move on after the sinking, and she had. Surely he'd be proud.

Richard still didn't know of Jack, and as far as Rose was concerned, he didn't need to. There was no need to talk about him. He had asked about her childhood, and she made up some story that she soon forgot. Luckily, it didn't interest him enough for him to ask again in years to follow. Truth be told, he didn't even know that she was a survivor of the Titanic disaster. It had never been brought up in conversation, and Rose wasn't exactly going to mention it. Too many memories... painful memories... memories that she wished she could go back to, but then had to pinch herself. She sometimes had to remind Rose Calvert how good life was nowadays, and tell Rose DeWitt Bukater to shut up and rest in peace. Rose DeWitt Bukater was dead, and Rose Calvert intended to keep it that way.

Throughout the rest of the 1930's, the Great Depression continued to grow and spread, like a cancerous tumour on the face of not only America, but the world, crippling anything it touched. There was no money circulating anymore, so men were fired from their jobs, since they couldn't be paid. It was fair enough, but then as unemployment rose, and the number of available jobs decreased, it basically meant that everyone was _"stuck in the shitter"_ As Roses' friend Emmanuelle liked to say. She was a cabaret dancer in a Hollywood bar, and she too was slowly rising to fame, beginning to tour the USA, on a cheap budget of course, but less money meant fewer clothes, and the fewer clothes she wore during her performances, the better.

For a good ten years, Rose and Richard lived happily, as happily as they could anyway, in their little suburban home. Rose even managed to pop out two kids during this time. She had always wanted kids. She had a little girl first, in the Spring of 1932. She named her Ruth, a name that Rose explained, "I have always loved." She didn't dare tell him the truth. She was in fact, by this point in her life, as she was beginning to start her own family, thinking about her mother much more often. But these were thoughts that she had to put aside. In the winter of 1935, Rose and Richard were overjoyed when she gave birth to their second child, a boy, whom they agreed to name Jack. Yet again, another name chosen at _"random",_ but one she loved. "I really love that name... _Jack_... I love that name."

The family of 4, including their pet Dalmatian, got by rather well despite the economic crisis that surrounded them. Rose had attained enough money as a waitress, and then as an actress, to support herself and the children, and Richard too had made a bomb in his life writing stage productions and screenplays. Before Rose gave birth to her red headed beauty, Ruth, she had done several Cabaret shows with Emmanuelle. The thrill of it all appealed to Rose greatly, and her perfectly formed physique at the glamorous age of 36 proved popular with the men in the front row who threw roses and dollar bills on stage as Rose bent over backwards, sitting on a chair as she did so, slowly removing her tights. This secret hobby soon came to a standstill when Richard found out. It stopped altogether when he coincidently got her pregnant. As far as he was concerned, if she couldn't act in his plays or films, she couldn't act for any other show, cabaret or not. He wasn't a cruel man at all, but he was quite easily jealous, and never liked it when things didn't go his way. "No one's going to pay to see a mother of two with stretch marks and tired eyes acting like a whore, are they?" was the sentence he would calmly state most often when Rose even mentioned Cabaret around him.

She had her children later in life, but she was pleased with this. It meant that she had a lifetime of experiences under her belt to share with her babies. Jack was a round faced little boy, with little green buttons for eyes, rosy cheeks and a dark crown of brown hair. He was the double of his father. Ruth was just like Rose as a child. Pale, pink cheeks, pink nose, enormous blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds, and of course, a swirling mass of ginger hair that could be seen from a mile away. She gave her children everything, and even though the Depression continued, she didn't let it affect her or her family. She was the happiest she had ever been. Sometimes, she wished she could just pick up the phone and call her Mother, or send a postcard to her... what would her mother think of her now? Wealthy AND happy!

This Great Depression did not end until America entered WW2. Entering the War helped the USA to get out of the seemingly never-ending economic crisis, as it took men from the work force and put them in the military, causing the rest of the U.S to enter the job market. Then, they would mass produce products needed by the soldiers and the lonely women left at home, causing the economy to boom. It was a shame that it took a World War to help make money once again, but it did.

Richard didn't go to fight. He stayed behind, claiming he was too old to fight. By now he was reaching his fifties. It was true, he wasn't as fit as he sued to be, and he was letting himself go. He began running plays and beginning new film projects, his target audience of course being two very different ends of the scale: The men who were away fighting for their country, and the women they had left behind.

He had a brilliant love story lined up that would have every women crying their hearts out and paying to watch it again. And he also had a raunchy, humorous, cabaret inspired film already written, that would be sure to arouse the lonely men who sat in foreign lands with their helmets and camouflage. He wanted a blonde to play the role for both films however, and asked Rose if she would be willing to die her trademark hair to achieve his image. Of course, his still beautiful wife was more than glad to die her hair and take on these roles after being out of the business for what seemed like a lifetime.

She had done a lot in that time though. Richard paid for her to have flying lessons, and they had friends in high places who owned two planes AND an empty air field up in California. She loved being up in the air, like a bug on a bird, looking down at everything from such a height. Worries were so small and freedom was unparalleled up there when she was flying. She loved flying. She had always and would always love flying. Moving to Hollywood was the biggest and best decision Rose had made in her life... her new life anyway. She pondered on this thought as she sat in her home one summer evening in 1941, stroking her pet Dalmatian, Samuel.

That same evening, Jack Dawson was sitting in a nervously silent bus, on an uncomfortable bumpy road, being taken headed to Official Army Headquarters in New York. Early the next morning, he would be on the first ship to France, where the Germans were slaughtering the British and U.S soldiers like ragdolls. Rumours were circulating that mustard gas was being used by the Huns, and Jack prayed to God that these were only rumours. The stories of how men died after inhaling the yellow gas were just too much to comprehend, and the recruitment video he and every other man on the bus had been forced to watch was even worse. Right now Jack, Jack was scared of the world... this new, barbaric world anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack had been fighting for weeks now, and he was starting to feel like this was the biggest mistake he had ever made. He had survived for the past few months with nothing more serious than a broken finger. Luckily it wasn't his shooting hand, so he was alright to get back out and fight as soon as it was bandaged up. He was tired, hungry, in pain both inside and outside, and he was lost. He knew where he was. France... somewhere in France anyway. It was a field, filled with turned up soil, shards of smouldering metal, and pools of blood and meat. With a gun in his shaking hands, he watched from behind a sandbag as his fellow comrades moved forward. He and a handful of others stayed behind to protect what little land they had gained today.

They arrived here at 1500 hours, and it was now 1900 hours. In Jack's jeep, they had 15 men, and in the truck behind them would have been at least another 100 men. There were already troops here on arrival, so possibly 200 men altogether.

Jack could only count about 30 now. It was hard to see through the red and black mist that had descended over the battlefield. To be fair, it was thought by Jack and his remaining soldiers that the enemy was now well and truly finished with, as attack from their side of the battlefield had stopped. Although, the more he thought about it, the more he thought that this wasn't a battlefield at all. It was more of a slaughterhouse.

They had pushed those German bastards back at least 60 meters and gained at least that amount of land back from them. This sleepy little French village had no idea it was about to be under siege from Hitler's henchman. And even though they had won back about 60 meters of land, they had lost almost 200 men in doing so.

It was only 60 meters. Was it really worth all those lives lost?

It seemed pointless to Jack. His friends, his comrades, they were being blown up and shot down like animals. Jack turned his eyes away from the field, sat against the sandbag, which had sand pouring from it out of bullet holes, and he sobbed. He sobbed like a little girl.

For the first time in Jack Dawson's life, he was terrified. He was really terrified, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.

It was 1942 by now, and Rose was filming a scene for her husband's newest project _"When You're Hot, Take It Off."_ It was completely different from anything that Rose had done before, for she had to play not only a cabaret stripper, she had to be a blonde. Dying her hair was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

Changing who she was, be it DeWitt Bukater to Dawson, Dawson to Calvert, or Calvert to any given role in a play, was easy. She didn't find it greatly difficult... but changing how she looked. That was going to be harder. She had grown up with red hair, her father used to sing about it adoringly, and it was the only link she felt she still had with her Mother... wherever she was.

Was she still alive? The only time Rose ever thought of Ruth was when she looked in the mirror, because she felt she was starting to look like her Mother more and more each day. She was on the wrong side of 40, laughter lines were slowly creeping over her forehead, but her hair burnt as bright as ever.

Right now, as Rose Calvert stood in front her bathroom sink in her glamorous Hollywood mansion, which she lived in with her writer/director husband and two children, she simply stared at the bottle of peroxide in her hand. She told Richard that she had no problem dying her hair, and she didn't. Wearing a wig when you're dancing on a stage and bending over backwards for men just isn't practical. She stared at this little bottle in her hand. A little bottle that was about to change her appearance beyond recognition.

She laughed to herself as she pulled on a pair of thin plastic gloves. "I should be used to little things changing my life." She began to open the lid of the peroxide. "This bottle, it's nothing. I survived the sinking of the infamous Titanic... I can do anything!" She glanced up proudly into the mirror, her hands shaking ever so slightly. "I'm Rose Daw-Calvert." She accidently lost grip of the bottle and dropped it into the sink, some of its contents spilling. "I'm Rose Calvert... I'm Rose Calvert." She picked up the bottle and sat it down on the marble surface of the sink. She looked up into the mirror, picked up a brush, and began brushing her hair thoroughly and continuously.

Why was this so difficult? For the first time in Rose Calvert's life, she was terrified. She was really terrified, and she didn't know why.

Needless to say, _"When You're Hot, Take It Off"_ was a hit, but caused much controversy. It was one of the first films of its time to have stripping shown as a real profession and to have its female cast to actually take off their clothes... covered slightly by fanned out feathers. It was also the first film in which Rose sang, and her song, which went by the same name as the movie title, had instant radio airplay. She was now able to add _'singer'_ to her résumé.

Rose's good friend Emmanuelle, who had been a cabaret dancer for the majority of her life, taught Rose how to perform on stage and for the camera, and pull off a convincing strip routine without it looking awkward or forced. Richard had heard of Emmanuelle, but when he saw how she was with Rose, friend and teacher, and how talented she was, he offered her a role in his film. She gladly accepted, and the pay packet was gladly accepted also.

Although in her late 40s, Rose Calvert still dazzled and looked excellent for her age. She still had her curves, and even after two children she was still flat stomached and toned. With the introduction of colour vision in movies several years previous, Rose's piercing blue eyes and ravishing blonde locks could finally be brought to life. Richard actually said after viewing the finished product that he almost wished he hadn't asked Rose to die her hair. However, he stood by his reasons for doing it, saying that it was time she reinvented herself... as if she hadn't done that enough in her life. She did suit blonde hair very much. She looked sophisticated and mature, and the colour was starting to grow on her.

Whilst shooting her film, she was also rehearsing a play, _"We'll Meet Again"_ which was basically a play about a wife waiting for her love to return from war. The film was targeted for troops overseas, and the play was to be shown for free to a theatre of Californian soldiers wives on its opening night. It's safe to say the play was also a hit, with not a dry eye in the house. Richard was a gifted writer, there was no denying it, and Rose was certainly a star in her own right.

But being a star came at a cost, and for Rose, it was not seeing her children as much as she would have liked. She felt that their Nanny Patricia was starting to spend more time with them than she was. And Rose was tired. She was so tired. She hardly got time away from filming or rehearsing. The only time she got to herself was in the shower and in bed, both of which she spent crying. She didn't know why, but as soon as the expensive gowns were off and the lights went out, and her head hit the goose feather filled pillow, she did nothing but sob silently to herself. Richard never heard her. He was a deep sleeper, and she didn't want to worry him like she was worrying herself.

In 1943, Jack was laying in his bunk-bed in the barracks, and all his friends were out having a drink in the bar on site which was for soldiers specifically. He often went with his friends for a drink, who was left of them anyway, but tonight he felt like doing some drawings. He would often sketch the battlefield from that days duty from his memory. It wasn't a hard task to do. Such grim sights imprinted their bloody image on any ones fragile mind. His friends knew when to let him has his alone time. Jack was always a very talkative, always up for a laugh, and always pulling a prank on one of the soldiers in the lower ranks. He was the source of light and humour in this barrack... but recently, his light had been extinguished, and the smiles just didn't appear as often as they used to. They all knew what was wrong with him. It was this war that they had gotten themselves stuck in. There was only one way out, and it was in a body bag, and as far as Jack saw it, that was how he was going to get out of here.

He used to play fight the guy he shared a room with for the top bunk every night. Now, he had a huge selection of top bunks to pick from. Every single empty bunk stone cold, like the plane wooden cross that stood in the ground above the lifeless body of whoever used to sleep in that particular bunk. Stan was his name. He was a nice young guy. Quite cocky, vain beyond belief, but hilarious all the same. He hated the Germans with a passion, and once got Jack to sketch a portrait of Hitler for the boys to throw darts at for fun. Jack got on with him very well. Stan once said that after the war was over, he and Jack were going to find a place together, fill it with trendy German Bauhaus furniture, and then burn the place to the ground and laugh.

The next day Stan was burned alive in the cockpit of his plane as it crashed to the ground, shot down by the enemy.

Jack cried for two whole days. He hadn't cried like this since he lost Fabrizio and Rose back in 1912. That seemed a lifetime ago, and he had more or less gotten over it. He would never forget that night, or the ones he loved and lost, but this War had taught him first hand that the only way to get by in life was to keep moving forward and don't look back. This new world that they were entering was frightening, and it was dangerous and it was daunting, but it was a new world. That past was the past, and it had been left there. The future was something to look forward to... and Jack was going to make sure he got there.

As he lay in bed scribbling, his friend Mitch came running into the room, clearly drunk, and almost collapsed to the floor when he went to grab the bed post and failed.

"Can I help you, Mitch?" Jack asked, laughing slightly.

"No, you cannot, but I think Billy out there is about to have a heart attack?" Mitch slurred, pointing out into the hall as the sounds of rowdy soldiers echoed towards Jack's ears.

"Oh, and why's that? Did his wife finally send him a pair of her undies in the mail, or is she still _'too proper'_ for that?"

"No, not that! He's still begging her. You know that actress, the hot one?" Mitch leaned against the bunk, and belched.

Jack cringed at the smell of the brewery emanating from his friends mouth, and replied "What one would that be exactly?"

"The one that's in that new film! It's in colour and everything! We're gonna go see it in the picture house on Saturday, you should come with us!"

"Yeah, you'll go _IF_ we're not being bombarded by a hail of German bullets that is." Jack jumped down from his bunk and walked over to the chest of drawers in the corner of the room to put his drawings away. "I don't really watch movies anyway, you know that. I got banned from the picture house back in New York after I got caught sneaking in. Kinda went off them since. Waste of money _AND _time!"

"So what was the last movie you seen?" Mitch attempted to walk over to him, but decided against it as the room began spinning.

"I dunno, some horror film back in 1920 or something. I've never really been into movies. All the movies these days don't look the same. They don't have that classic charm to them. First one I saw was awesome! A Nickelodeon back when I was 7, I'll never forget it."

"Well you're never gonna forget this movie! It's about stripper ladies, and the real stripper lady from the actual movie is coming here in two weeks to see us!" Mitch spoke with so much enthusiasm, and Jack returned it with a blank _'I couldn't care less' _kind of look. "She's like, 40 something, blonde, and HOT! You might not know her, but you'll love her, I know it!"

"I don't doubt it. What's her name?" He tried to sound interested as he climbed back into his bed.

Mitch followed suit and climbed into his bed opposite Jack. "Rose Calvert... c'mon, you _MUST_ have heard of her!"

"Rose, huh?..." Jack thought on this for a moment, before saying. "Pretty name... Doesn't ring any bells."


	6. Chapter 6

The year was 1943, and the war seemed to be at a standstill. At this crucial midway point, it could have gone either way. Britain was more or less begging for another fresh batch of American troops to join the conflict, as countless wives, mothers and sisters were receiving the dreaded yellow note from the postman back home. There were more deaths to report on the radio and in the newspapers than uplifting and hopeful victories, and so new recruits in Britain were few and far between. The war had been raging on for almost 5 years now, and Britain's male population had diminished greatly. American males however were brave, eager, excitable, and innocently naive. If all these new American recruits, young men who should have decades ahead of them, sat down with a weather beaten, broken nosed, scarred mind and shattered nerved Jack Dawson, they might think differently.

Rose was finally spending some quality time with her kids. Their Nanny Patricia had been politely fired, or let go as Richard liked to say, as Rose was dying to spend more time with Jack and Ruth. She had been so busy lately working on Richard's new projects, one after the other, no time for herself or her family. She never stopped acting because he never stopped writing. She admired him for it, but he refused to use other actresses for his main roles, and so the American sweetheart Mrs Calvert was always working on something or other. She loved acting and performing and working with him on the set of his newest creations, but lately she had been feeling so drained and tired and, as busy as she was, she felt empty. Standing in front of a camera felt like a punishment now rather than a joy. Each second spent on set was another second away from her children, and Ruth accidentally called Patricia _"Mummy"_ a week prior. Rose didn't tell Richard, but that was the main reason she fired her. She was a good worker, but she was a more constant figure to the kids than Rose herself, and Rose hated it. If Rose could hire anyone to look after her home and her children, it would be Miss Trudy Bolt... God rest her soul.

One hot Sunday afternoon as Rose and the kids sat by the pool outside their Californian condo, Richard received a phone call. He was inside working on a new script, and, irritated that he had to answer the phone, he shouted from the upstairs balcony that there was someone on the phone for her. He didn't give specifics, and from the tone of his voice he clearly was in no mood to be Roses' secretary.

Richard had grown a temper lately, nothing in comparison to Cal's, but he was moody and almost stand-offish towards Rose. He was upstairs in the attic most days which was now his work space, a perfect room for writing, away from the chaotic children three floors down the spiralling staircase, and looking out towards the green wilderness of the sun-dried Californian landscape.

Rose stood up from the pool, the blazing Californian sky kissing her bare shoulders and thighs, dried herself off, and told Jack and Ruth to play nicely. "I'll be watching you from inside, so no funny business!" She pointed at them both and put on a playfully stern face. Jack saluted her and replied, "Yes, Mam!"

Just as Rose neared the kitchen door, she felt a tug on the towel around her waist. Turning around and looking down she saw her daughter. Waist height, burning red locks like a fairy from an Irish Fairytale, and ice blue eyes. She was a young Rose DeWitt Bukater, and an even younger version of her unknown Grandmother Ruth. Rose knelt down to get to her level, brushing a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

"Yes, darling?"

"Is Daddy okay?" She asked sweetly, not worried, just curious.

"Of course he is! Why would you ask that?"

The young Ruth hovered on her words for a moment, and then began. "I came downstairs last night to get a drink of juice and he was sleeping on the couch, and Jack sleeps on the couch when he is sick." She tilted her head to the side, squinting as the sun shone onto her face over the orange trees surrounding the garden. "Is Daddy sick?"

Rose laughed lightly. "No sweetie, Daddy's not sick." Ruth looked into her Mother's eyes, believing her, but still in need of closure. Rose wrapped her arms around her and pulled her in tightly, kissing her damp hair. "You have nothing to worry about, Ruth. If anything was wrong with Daddy, you and Jack would be the first to know." Rose stayed on her knees, her arms tight around her little red haired angel, resting her head upon her little head, looking at Jack splashing around in the shallow end of the pool with a beach ball. She took in this moment, photographed it mentally, and knew there and then that she would cherish it forever. She had reached that point in her life. That point in life that everyone strives to achieve, but most struggle to find. She had found bliss, something she never thought she would find. She was in paradise, and she never wanted it to end.

"Rose! Phone! Now!" A loud and further irritated Richard shouted down from the balcony above. Three short demands. Rose obeyed her director. She jumped ever so slightly and let go of Ruth who skipped off happily to join her brother in the swimming pool. Rose wiped away a joyful tear from her eye and composed herself. She headed through the shining kitchen, into the elegant hallway, and picked up the glossy black dial phone that lay on its side upon the table.

She took a breath and held the phone to her ear. "Hello, Rose Calvert speaking."

She waited... No reply.

"Hello? Is there anyone there?" she spoke a little louder. Perhaps it was a bad connection.

Silence... but then, there was the slightest hint of a muffled whimper on the other end, and the call ended abruptly.

Rose stood with the phone in her hand, utterly confused. She took it away from her ear as the beeping drone began, a reminder that the person on the other end had hung up. She put the receiver down and stood for a moment to think. Who was it? A newspaper journalist? A casting director? Perhaps it was a wrong number.

Unphased, Rose went back outside to join her babies who were fighting over the beach ball. She had one more day of perfection with them until she had to fly to an army barrack in Greece to perform her Cabaret act to crowds of rowdy soldiers in an exotic setting. She was excited, not only because she was going to meet the men fighting for the world's freedom from Germany and thank them personally, but it was also the last item on her schedule for a long time. After this, she was planning to have her life back. She was tired of playing other people. She wanted to bask in the glory of Rose Calvert for a year or two... maybe even more. Hopefully no unexpected and unwanted surprises arose after tomorrow.

Greece at night was just as hot as it was during the day. The Army Barracks were situated high up in the mountains, surrounded by Olive trees and overlooking a glistening Turquoise Sea. A white porcelain town with mosaic wall tiles and stylized street cobbles stood below the Barracks, and the native Greeks made Olive butter for the troops and offered them wine and fruit. Jack and his friends were back from a routine fitness check, and Jack was being playfully ridiculed from his fellow troops for having a somewhat crooked nose and two black eyes.

"How'd you do it, Jacko?" A Scottish soldier asked as he jumped up into his bunk with a laugh.

"I think it was that Greek girl he was talking to last week." An American responded. "She was exquisite! You should have seen the knockers on her, it's no wonder he has two black eyes and a broken nose!" A roar of laughter erupted like a bomb throughout the room. "I saw the way she looked at you Jack. She must like a greying man in uniform."

"Not only a man in uniform, but a man who has run through a hail of bullets without so much as a shirt on!"

"People will start to think you're suicidal, Dawson!"

"He's right you know. I mean, just last month you ran through a crowd of armed and angry Huns to help Mitch. You got hardly a scratch. I think they actually jumped out of your way when they saw you coming towards them!"

Everyone began to laugh and joke as they undressed, carefully hanging up their dog tags, folding their uniforms, placing their boots beneath the bed in neat rows, and climbed into their respective bunks. As they all spoke amongst themselves and chuckled heartily, Jack sat up on his top bunk silently, the lights going off one by one through the sleepy barracks. He didn't take in what they were saying as the darkness crept towards him, one bulb after another going out. As their voices merged and blurred and went out of focus, Jack took his shining silver dog tag, held it between his shaking fingers, and dragged it along his exposed thigh, digging into the muscular flesh and drawing warm blood. He watched the blood collect at the wound, then trickle down his thigh and gather in a small puddle on his already blood stained bed sheet.

Most of his friends weren't living, and as long as they lay rotting in foreign fields, beneath unmarked graves, in a million pieces, he would never be content with life. Life was not worth living when all you know is death. He no longer feared dying. He would happily welcome the day he met his Maker. He had narrowly escaped death more than once in his lifetime. Perhaps it was about time he ended it himself. Killing himself seemed like a plausible option these days. Plus, it would give the Huns one less kill to their list, which in an odd way is a good thing in Jack's mind.

He didn't feel he was serving his country the way he thought he would. He was simply a pawn in a game of Chess. A game of chess which had come to Stalemate. Gaining an inch of ground from the Germans cost more lives than it should have. He felt like a piece of meat. A piece of meat waiting to be butchered at any moment, slowly moving along a factory conveyer belt towards the inevitability of bombs and bullets. A piece of meat with a bloody dog tag that read, '51402911'. He was nothing but a statistic now. As far as he was concerned, Jack Dawson was dead.

Just as the last light went out in the room, the soldier in the bunk below Jack kicked his mattress and asked in an unapologetically loud voice "You looking forward to the strip show tomorrow, Jack? Emmanuelle and Rose! Oh boy I'm hard as a rock just thinking about that blonde beauty!"

Every man in that camp must have heard good old Harvey, and his question was soon followed by the chanting of the song, _"If You're Hot, Take It Off"_ and ear piercing wolf whistles.

Jack lay on his side, eyes wide open, curled up in a foetal position, the occasional nearby whistle breaking his fortress of silence. Little He couldn't care less about tomorrow's Cabaret show. He knew that it was a last ditch effort to boost morale. As far as Jack was concerned, there was no morale left to boost. That's how he got the broken nose in the first place. Banging his face off of brick walls when no one was around was a more enjoyable pastime to Jack these days than watching two American whores get naked on stage.

Jack, trying to ignore the aroused and excitable troops around him, closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He closed his eyes, and he liked it.


	7. Chapter 7

Rose woke up early the next day, an anxiously eager feeling fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Her suitcases were all packed and she only had a few more things to get together before she left for the airport. It was a sunny day, as was always the case in California, but Greece was going to be an entirely different world to what Rose knew, and she couldn't wait. She lay awake in bed for a while, thinking about what the soldiers would be like, the men keeping her and the rest of the Allied world safe from Hitler's rule. She didn't have to get out of bed for another half hour, and so she watched the sun rise further and further above the Hollywood Hills, rearing its orange head into the pink sky. She loved California, and for once in her life she was tanning. As a red head she had her Mother's ice cold white skin, but going blonde and living in such heat must have taught her skin to obey the gentle kiss of the sun.

And then her alarm clock went. Once again, she had beaten it at its own game, and once again the bed was empty beside her when she woke. It wasn't the first time. Yet again Richard had slept on the couch downstairs, which he had done for the past few weeks. It wasn't every night, but more often than not. Rose questioned him once and he told her that it was because he wrote scripts into the early hours and didn't want to disturb her by climbing into bed beside her. She didn't question him any further. She had no reason to.

Once she was out of bed, her purple silk robe draped around her white night dress and her blonde locks tied in a bun, Rose descended the sweeping spiral stairs that lead down to the hallway at the main entrance to the Californian mansion. As she approached the middle of the staircase she heard noises in the kitchen. Richard was awake already? How sweet, he must have gotten up early to make her breakfast. She had an early flight to catch, so doing such a thing would be the perfectly domesticated husband type thing to do. She smiled to herself a little.

Leaning over the railing she could just see into the doorway of the kitchen, and she barely make out a voice... no, not _a_ voice...Two voices... Glasses clinking. Was it the kids? No, it sounded too old to be any of the kids... but it was definitely female.

Finally, the stairs were overcome, and she jumped off the last two steps, tying her robe around her waist quickly and pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The kitchen was in sight, and two long shadows stretched along the floor, reaching a point and then glided up the pale yellow wall with the rays of the rising sun. She walked into the kitchen, curious as to who was in there, her husband's laughter, a female giggle.

"Rose darling, you're awake!" said Richard pleasantly, and with him It was Emmanuelle, Rose's friend of many years now, and co-star in Richard's movie _'When You're Hot Take It Off.'_ She was travelling to Greece with Rose to perform in their Cabaret Double Act, and Rose now felt ridiculous for even wondering what woman would be in her home other than Emmanuelle.

"Yes, I've been awake for a while. I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. When did you get here?"

"I got here about an hour ago. I knew Richard would be awake since, well, he never sleeps, does he?" She glanced over at Richard who looked away coyly and smiled to himself. Standing up to take her empty plate and half drunk coffee to the sink, she ran a hand through her short black hair, cut into a fashionable mid-neck length, straight fringe style. It framed her perfectly tear drop shaped face, piercing emerald green eyes and glistening red lips perfectly.

"I knew you were sleeping so I didn't want to wake you." Richard piped up innocently, watching Emmanuelle's slender body rise ever so slyly, that tightly fitting dress on her worryingly thin body making Rose feel like the frumpy middle aged housewife that she suddenly felt she was.

"I did miss your company Rose." She said is if reassuring her. "I'm starting to wish I hadn't come so early. I've had to keep rolling your husband's tongue back in, the Dog!" She turned over her shoulder, that shimmering hair covering her face briefly and then subsiding, not daring to hide those snake-like eyes. One wink at Richard, and Rose suddenly felt like she was intruding in her own home. She knew Emmanuelle was a flirtatious woman, it was in her nature, and it was never a problem, and she knew that Richard was a man and that nothing had happened, but for some reason Rose felt like she was a third wheel struggling to keep up with these two.

Emmanuelle giggled to herself, Richard straightened his tie and scratched his head, looking down at the floor. Rose watched as his near balding head blushed.

Rose walked over to the table to join them, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She examined the scene before her in the dim half light of the sun as it began to rise and shift behind the extending section of the house. "I see you two have already eaten."

Just as Rose said these words, it was as if an invisible hand had smacked the back of Richard's head as he fidgeted with his waistcoat buttons and brought him back to the reality of his husbandly role. "Oh, of course, uhm, I was going to make you something, but-"

"It's alright, I'll make something myself." Rose pushed out her seat, the wood screeching as it scraped along the tiled floor, and stood, gathering the used dishes that lay scattered on the table. "You two had quite the feast."

"You know how it us for us dancers, Rose. We have to keep our energy levels up! Well, I would know. I've been a dancer for long enough. How else would I still have these legs?" Still looking into the sink, she kicked a leg up behind her, hitting her perky little bottom with the heel of her shoe, and Richard nearly choked on his coffee as the toned leg and black heel appeared in the corner of his eye.

Rose bit her tongue as she carried the stack of plates to the sink. Dropping them almost angrily on the counter she stood, silently and still, until Emmanuelle dried her hands and moved out of the way.

"You sure you don't want me to-" She went to pick up another plate, but Rose snatched it away sharply. "No, I think I can manage. Wouldn't want you breaking a nail."

"How thoughtful of you." Emmanuelle joined Richard at the table once more and instantly behind Ross back giggles began. "What you reading, Rich?"

"Oh, just the reviews for my latest endeavours." He replied smugly.

"And?" Emmanuelle responded, leaning over Richard's shoulder, nearly resting her head on his shoulder to read the paper with him. Although Rose had her back turned, she could picture it, and for some reason she wanted to smash the plate she was holding.

"They're still going crazy for it." Only now, in this easily irritated and somewhat jealous state, did Rose realise how smug and pompous he could be. The echoes of Cal when he bragged to Ruth about how much Hockley Steel had been used in the construction of the Titanic were eerie. "I'm guessing it'll be on top for another few weeks at least."

Rose hoped the hype would die down soon, and with it the size of Richard's ego. All good things came to an end eventually. After all, the RMS Titanic only lasted 4 days on the open Ocean.

Jack stood on the scorching hot beach, his trousers rolled up to just below the knee, his shirt unbuttoned and the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. He had been walking through the glimmering turquoise tide and kicking the dazzling white sand for God only knows how long. He had been told to stand on the beach and keep lookout, but today he wasn't keeping lookout for the Germans. Today, Jack was keeping lookout for an expensive yacht to sail on over from the small airport across the water. On board this yacht would be the two women that every man was speaking of, and every man had definitely dreamt of the night before. Jack only wished he could have shared their dreams. Ever since his friend Mitch had been blown up right before his very eyes, his dreams had been somewhat scarred and damaged.

The only time he had ever suffered such stress was after the sinking of the Titanic, but that only lasted a month or so, and he didn't dream so much of the ship as he did losing Rose. Losing Rose was the worst thing that had ever happened to him... up until then at least. She was a lifetime ago. A faint and fleeting shadow in the dusty corner of his aching mind. He had slept with many women since then. He had even married one and fallen in love, something he thought he'd never do.

After the Carpathia reached New York, Jack refused to stay in the hostel with the rest of the survivors. He didn't need their charity, as kind as it was. He tried to get by on the streets, but living this way in the Big Apple was harder than he had anticipated, and after only a few weeks he had been caught for theft and then arrested for assaulting a police officer. He was put in jail and it was thought best he stay there until he showed that he was ready to be a well functioning part of society. That took the best part of 5 years. It wouldn't have taken so long if he didn't become a violent recluse once inside. But it wasn't his fault. If the judge knew what was happening to him behind closed doors, he would understand why Jack Dawson was struggling to function.

Something inside of him snapped when that barred cage door closed on him the first night in prison. His boyishly handsome face, sparkling blue eyes and thin, perfectly toned body in a small cell with 4 large, strong, sex hungry brutes that hadn't touched a woman in years. His stay in jail was unbearable to say the least. One would put a hand over his mouth, the other two would hold him down, and then the fourth would have his way with him, and they took turns. Jack dared not tell anyone. It wasn't only humiliating but it was also useless. The wardens knew it went on. They did nothing to stop it. They'd rather let it happen than try to intervene.

It went on for about a year. Jack soon realized the only way he would get away from this shared cell was if he was put into solitary confinement. He began tying shoe laces together and wrapping them tightly around his throat until his eyes went red and his face went purple. A warden spotted him in the act of doing this one day, alerted the other wardens, and Jack was moved to his own suicide watch cell. He spent four years in that room, being mentally examined by Doctors and watched through a hole in the door. As each day passed in these four padded walls, his clever play act of contemplating suicide became more and more real, and it scared him. What had he become?

After his release in late 1917, as WW1 was drawing to an end, he was back on the streets, 5 years older, and a broken man. His stay in jail was one he wished to forget but knew he wouldn't, and so he swore to himself he would never go back there again. He lay low on the streets, stayed out of trouble, and went days without eating. Before, he would do anything to get food. Now, he would rather starve than get caught breaking the law. He slept in an alleyway where a large vent on the wall behind his box expelled warm air from the shower-room a few floors up, and in this shower-room was Polly Maxwell.

She first noticed Jack in early 1917, and seeing that he meant no harm, she would bring him food out every morning. She always left it outside his cardboard box for him to find upon waking up. He didn't know it was her, until one morning when he was awake upon her arrival. He pretended he was asleep, heard the plate of pancakes go down, and then felt her stroking his hair away from his face. Her warm hand, delicate, careful fingers fixing his hair. He felt like a stray cat. And then, the sound of her heels walking out of the alley caught his attention, and he sat up, eyes open, and thanked her. She got a fright, not expecting him to be awake, and as she turned to face him, she noticed his warm smile, his gleaming blue eyes, looking like they were desperately trying to hold onto what life there was left inside him. She couldn't ignore that face. She had been brought up in a good Christian household, and she told him that there was a spare bedroom in her apartment, and that if he found a job and was able to pay his way a little she would be more than happy to give him a roof and a bed. Not to mention that hot shower he heard so often three floors above his box.

Jack accepted the offer, moved in, and one year later they were married. He started selling hotdogs on the same stand he stole from several months back, and eventually the stand got its own store and he worked there. It was part owned by a friendly Old Italian man named Antonio who would sometimes come into the store for a hotdog, ask how business was, and then depart. Polly worked at the picture-house on the other side of town, selling tickets for people to come and watch the latest movies and news reels. Jack never went to the picture house. It was too far away, and he didn't enjoy movies as much as he used to. Jack and Polly were happily married for 5 years. Then one night, as Polly was coming home from work, she was dragged into a dark alley by a group of thugs. There, she was beaten, raped, and robbed.

They found her cold, dead body the next day.

Jack lost it. He took to drinking heavily and began to believe that death clung to him like a bad smell. First his parents, then Rose and Fabrizio, and now Polly. He loved Polly. How could anyone do this to such a sweet, innocent young woman? She had helped him when he was at his lowest point, and he couldn't be there when she needed him most. Life had changed Jack. He was no longer the bright eyed, optimistic, hopeful dreamer he used to be. He once stopped a girl from committing suicide. These days, he would probably jump off the edge with her.

In 1925 he sold his wedding ring for a decent sum went back to Wisconsin to where his parents used to live. There was no point keeping the ring. It was a painful reminder of what he no longer had. He didn't know what good going back to Wisconsin would do, but New York wasn't a home for him anymore. Polly was gone, and selling hotdogs to fat, greasy old men wasn't exactly fulfilling. When he got there, so much had changed since 1910. There was a large row of houses standing where his small farmhouse once stood. That was before it burned to the ground, claiming his parent's lives and sparing his. That seemed to be the way it was for Jack. Life took every good thing away from him, made him suffer, but left him alone on Earth to suffer eternally. Was it lucky to be alive or unlucky? Jack was never sure. He spent several years in Wisconsin, feeling that perhaps going back to the beginning was the fresh start he needed. He stayed with an elderly man named Gordon who had a room to rent. He was a kind old man, and became the father figure Jack so desperately needed. They went fishing together on the same Lake Jack and his father went fishing on, and they both shared a passion for art. For the first time since Polly's death, Jack was happy. He spilled his heart on the floor to Gordon, and Gordon gave him advice and talked to him about everything. In 1932, Gordon passed away in his sleep peacefully, and Jack lost his best friend. Gordon left a Will, and all of his worldly possessions and money went to Jack.

"_To my Boy, I leave everything I have. I am gone, but hopefully not forgotten. If you've forgotten me already, I will haunt you terribly for the rest of your days! There's money behind the loose brick in the kitchen wall. I've been putting it away for a rainy day, but it always rains on your head my boy, so it's yours now. Spend the money wisely! One beer is all I will allow! Keep the house, sell it, it doesn't matter to me. Go and do what you have to do. No matter what, I will always be proud, and I will always be looking after you. I love you, son. Goodbye for now."_

Jack wept like a baby as he read the Will. He rest his head on Gordon's lifeless chest and thanked him. He would never forget his new Father. He went to the local pub, bought one beer with his money, and raised his glass to Gordon. The rest of the pub joined in, celebrating the life of a truly special man in their community, a community Jack had become a fixed part of. He said his goodbyes to the locals, and gave Gordon's house keys to Maria, the owner of the pub. She would sort all of that out for Gordon's beloved boy.

He spent the next few years travelling, doing what he always did best. He drew portraits to make extra money, slept with prostitutes, made friends along the way, got drunk, and lived the lifestyle that his 16 year old self would have adored. Now, he felt he was trying to keep something burning within him that had long been extinguished.

In 1939, with the possibility of War being so probable, he went back to New York, and with the clothes on his back and a bag of belongings, he signed up to fight for his country. Within weeks, he had been sent out to train in armed and unarmed combat.

It wasn't the best of lives, but it was the life Jack Dawson had lived. With the prison bar code tattoo on his arm, and a pale band around his finger where a wedding ring once was, Jack sat on the sand and watched the tide gently lull back and forth, splashing against smooth white rocks, drawing in closer and closer with the passing of each minute. He thought about his life, and for some reason, the quiet, still scene around him made him feel very contemplative and at ease. Perhaps because it was a polar opposite to the war torn battlefield of exploding bombs and screaming men he was so used to. Although the soldiers were only based in Greece to protect the island and pick up supplies for their further travels, it was almost like a brief holiday. A chance to escape the Germans for a week. Today's Cabaret show was going to be the icing on the cake, and as much as Jack tried, he just couldn't bring himself to be excited. It wasn't that he didn't love seeing women get naked before his very eyes. He enjoyed that very much. It wasn't even the show that was making him feel so down. It was everything. It was his whole world and all the people that had left, and the uncertainty of his life, plunging ahead into battle, and powerless to stop it.

Just then, as he drew lines in the sand with a dry piece of drift wood, he glanced up to the shining horizon, and there, on the clear green sea beneath the flawless blue sky he saw it. A small white dot at first, but as it drew closer he saw a sail, and the gleam of a window, and before long, there was the yacht that every soldier and native to the island had been waiting for. He blew his whistle that he had been given to alert the others of the arrival, and as the sound echoed over the island, every man sprung into action, getting all last minute preparations ready for the girls to take to the stage, and the men to take their seats.

Rose sat in the yacht, looking over at the island from behind her black sunglasses, a large straw hat shading her face, and her blonde hair blowing in the warm breeze. She smiled and sighed with relief as the jagged, tree covered mountains and little white housed towns came into the view. The beach looked spectacular, and from this far distance she could make out a man on the beach, blowing a whistle and sprinting up the hill to join the others. He vanished into the trees, and the sound of whistles and cheers danced across the tranquil sea.

Rose laughed, "They must know we're here."

Emmanuelle, who was sitting under the sail with a glass of champagne put a hand over her head to block the sun and looked over to the island. "It's beautiful. A floating paradise in the middle of the Ocean."

Rose thought on what she said. It was startling how much this simple comment made her reminisce back to the Titanic. "I never have liked sailing much." She admitted quietly.

"Well it's worth it when we get to enjoy this Oasis! Who knows, I might even hook up with a hot Greek guy." She winked at Rose, and Rose giggled.

"If these men know what's good for them, they'll stay away from you." Emmanuelle laughed, and Rose smiled jokingly. Truth be told she meant what she said.

She had bit her tongue on the plane and all the way here, but an annoying little feeling in the back of her mind was telling her that something had happened between Emmanuelle and Richard. She tried to ignore it, but it was there, biting at her brain like a worm in an apple. As soon as Emmanuelle stepped onto this island, there would be a snake in this perfect garden of Eden, and Rose was not going to be pulled into it or embarrassed by her sexual exploits and drunken blunders. They were going to dance together, but that was it. Rose planned to spend a few days on the beach whilst Emmanuelle partied with the soldiers. Nothing was going to ruin this for Rose. Nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

The several hundred or so people on the tropical paradise among a glowing green Sea all came out in force, rolling out a somewhat shabby red carpet along the dock, and leading onto the beach. From there, it was just a small walk up a steep cobbled road and then it levelled out into a Town courtyard, home to a sea shell covered Church, picturesque houses and a restaurant. Once Jack had blown his whistle and alerted the others of the arrival, he was surrounded by drooling men and excited women, pushed out of the way and screamed at by fellow comrades as they raced down to the beach. Eventually, Jack was at the back of the adoring swarm, and instead of trying to see the woman off the boat, he left it to the others to do that. He didn't exactly want to see the women perform, but if he could at least see them onto the dock safely the he'd be happy. But getting through that mob would be impossible, and his friends looked eager to get their hungry hands on the ladies before anyone.

Rose watched from the bow of the yacht as throbs of men, some wearing shirts and shorts, others wearing only shorts, some wearing only shirts, but all of them tanned, and strong, and handsome. She waved a delicate hand and smiled as their faces came into view, and the yacht was near enough to the dock for their voices to be heard, each voice distinguishable. Emmanuelle jumped up from her towel and raced along the deck, nearly knocking Rose overboard as she jumped up onto the rail and raised her arms majestically, sailing forth like a flawless, dark haired mermaid attached to the front of a pirate ship. When she appeared, showing more flesh than Rose, a deafening cheer rang out from the shore, and Rose sat down again, feeling somewhat overshadowed by her noticeably more petite counterpart. Rose was not fat or out of shape in any way, but compared to Emmanuelle, Rose Calvert looked what she called, "well fed."

The oldest married couple on the island, Mr and Mrs Tripoli, who had been happily married for 52 years, greeted the two radiant women off of the yacht and welcomed them to the heavenly Greek Island. Desdemona Tripoli was an olive skinned, white haired woman with ancient, wrinkled skin and fragile hands. She handed each girl a bouquet of flowers picked from their garden, and kissed their cheek. She was 73 years old and had lived on this island her whole life, marrying Demetrius when she was 21. Her husband hugged both women heartily, smiling like a proud father as he welcomed them ashore, his dark grey hair, white side burns, and tanned, weather beaten skin looking remarkably youthful for a man of 75 years. His wife had not been well recently, and although she was younger, her age was showing.

"Thank you for gracing our island!" Mr Tripoli exclaimed with a prominent accent, clearly this was one English sentence he had rehearsed the night before.

"It's our pleasure, Sir, truly." Rose replied modestly, shaking his hand. Before jumping off of the yacht, Rose had adorned a shawl and her hat, hiding most of her bikini, whereas Emmanuelle had no sense of bashfulness, and walked along the dock ahead of Rose in the skimpiest bikini Rose had ever seen, tan lines showing, waving to the men on the beach like a model on a catwalk. Rose rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long week.

"You will both be staying with us in our home, right on top of the Island." Frail old Desdemona, who spoke much better English then her other half, pointed a shaky hand towards the sweeping green tropical trees that spiralled up around a volcano type mountain, shading pathways, masking century old homes, coming to rest on top of the Island like swirls on a wedding cake, the 52 year strong bride and groom placed neatly on top in a beautiful pearly-white villa.

"Your home looks lovely, Mrs Tripoli, and thank you ever so much for having us... but if you don't mind me asking, how do you manage to get all the way up there?"

Mr Tripoli chuckled loudly, and turning around, he pointed to the end of the dock. There, on the edge of the dock where the wooden planks ended and the sand began, stood a sturdy looking grey donkey with a cart attached to his back.

Rose giggled as the donkey acknowledged its owner and snorted, stomping the ground almost excitedly. "Oh I see! Does he have a name?"

"Agnes." Demetrius beamed proudly.

"It's a _she_? Oh well I do apologise, Agnes." She waved at the donkey as it chewed on something, a carrot perhaps.

"When you get old, you find new ways of living. Demetrius and I ran up that mountain 52 years ago. Then he would carry me, and now Agnes carries us both. Time may change people, but time can never change love. True love is forever." Desdemona spoke softly, and this unexpected outburst of beautiful wisdom made Rose stop and stare in admiration, her wise words striking an unknown chord with Rose. Just then, she held out a hand for Rose, and humbled, Rose took her hand. Demetrius left the two women to walk towards the beach, running over to the rowdy soldiers who were already surrounding Emmanuelle like lions after finding a carcass.

"It is beautiful here Mrs Tripoli, nothing like California." Rose gazed around her, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, warm, crisp sea air filling her lungs. No sound or smell of traffic, no graffiti covered alleyways, no homeless souls who travelled to Hollywood to pursue their dreams and lost it all. Just sun, sand and sea. Perfection.

"It is all I have ever known, and all I want to know. I was born here, in that very house. It has been in my family for generations."

Suddenly, a loud cheer from the soldiers made Rose and Desdemona both turn their heads in surprise, and they saw Emmanuelle rip off her bikini top and dive into the crowd of grinning, drooling men.

"I'm sorry about her." Rose said, her cheeks burning.

"She wild I see." Mrs Tripoli

"Wild is one word for it." Rose could think of several more, but they were perhaps less tasteful.

The elderly woman sensed something in Roses' voice and looked at her as they continued to walk. "You have your differences?"

Rose wasn't expecting her to realize this so quickly, but Desdemona was a wise woman, and Rose had realized this quickly too. "I guess you could say that. We just have different views on life."

"You are both cabaret dancers, yes?"

"I played one in a movie, but she has been one in real life for many years. Off screen she has the confidence to do all this!" She gestured with distaste to her friend as she paraded her half naked body across the dock, Demetrius clapping and presenting her like a Magicians glamorous assistant.

"You only have the confidence to be someone else on screen?"

"I guess you could say that, yes. I only change who I am when I have to, and right now I'm Rose."

Desdemona smiled very warmly, and gripped Rose's hand tighter. "I like Rose. I like Rose very much."

"Thank you, Mrs Tripoli."

"Please, call me Desdemona."

"Desdemona." It was such a beautiful name. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love performing on stage. It is a wonderful song, and a brilliant routine. It makes me feel so alive! People think I'm this delicate little flower which I'm not."

"Rose's are not delicate, not at all. A rose is one of the only flowers that can make you bleed if you hold it the wrong way. And they have so many petals, so many layers. There is more to a rose than meets the eye."

Rose looked at this old woman who she had only known for a matter of minutes, and already this woman seemed to know how Rose ticked. It was extraordinary. Rose felt like spilling her heart out to this mysterious lady with the trusting brown eyes and flowing white hair. But the more Rose thought on this, the more she wondered, _"What do I need to spill from my heart? I'm happy... aren't I?"_

However, their conversation was cut short. They both looked over at the soldiers as they held their hands up, Emmanuelle surfing the crowd expertly, dipping up and down with the rise and fall of their strong arms. "Come on Rose, hurry up! We don't want to keep them waiting!"

"Yeah, Rose, don't keep us waiting!" One of the soldiers called out, and at once, every man began chanting "Rose", the chant growing louder and louder with each second.

Rose let go of Desdemona's hand and turned to face her. "Thank you again. I'll see you later."

Desdemona raised a hand to Roses' face, placed a strand of blonde hair behind her hair, and said in a hushed and secretive tone, "I didn't know this Island was perfect for me until I ventured from it. When I came back, I knew this was where I wanted to be. Never settle for second best, Rose. Never."

Rose nodded, and replied, "I won't... I promise." And with that, she gave into the calls of the crowd and began running across the dock, handing her shawl and hat to Demetrius who took it happily and laughed loudly.

As Rose dove into the crowd and was carried above their heads alongside Emmanuelle, who gripped her hand and screamed with delight, she couldn't help but think of what Desdemona had just said. It was random, and because it was so random it should technically mean nothing to Rose, and yet Rose could not get those words out of her mind, and they suddenly meant everything to her.

Jack sat in his bunk, sketching the scene of the beach and the approaching yacht from memory. He could hear the girlish squeals and manly shouts from the beach, but he was in his own little world as he drew. When he drew, he felt safe. When he drew this war torn battlefields, he felt safe, because drawing it meant he had survived it. Drawing was, and had always been, his escape. On the Carpathia, he drew sketches of the Titanic, and one was used in a New York newspaper. Suddenly, one word caught his concentration, repeated over and over again from outside, and before he knew it his pencil was writing out this word, this name, over and over again.

_Rose... Rose... Rose... Rose_


	9. Chapter 9

The cheering had died down now, and Jack thought that it was the best time to join his fellow comrades outside in preparation for the show. Whether or not he was going to stick around and watch it he wasn't sure, but he knew how to build the stage better than anyone. Scrunching up the sheet of paper which had been vandalised with the word _"Rose"_ over and over again, he threw it into the trash can beneath his bunk, trying to let go of unwanted memories that would cause unwanted pain. Why couldn't the troops have cheered _"Emmanuelle"_? It was longer, and Rose was perhaps easier to chant, but Emmanuelle wouldn't have brought about such a dark cloud in Jack's already tempestuous mind.

Running a hand through his short, very badly chopped blonde hair, he walked over to the window, the hot sunlight penetrating the thin glass and warming the place up immensely. The view over the trees, down onto the courtyard and across the water was breathtaking. Jack had always wanted to travel further abroad than Europe. He just never assumed he would have to risk his life everyday and see such Hell in order to witness such Heaven. That was the way life had been for a long time now. In order to see the good, and for the good to truly stand out and leave an impression, you have to suffer the bad for a while.

From the well nested position of the temporary camp, hanging carefully from the edge of the mountain, masked by trees, and looking down protectively on the small town, Jack could see everything with a bird's eye view. The beach was mostly empty now, as both women had been carried up the hill by the rowdy soldiers and into the courtyard. Mr and Mrs Tripoli followed closely behind in their donkey drawn carriage. The blonde woman with the curves was screaming with delight, which Jack could hear and it made him smile a little. The dark haired woman already had her breasts on show and she hadn't been on the island 5 minutes. Jack saw who the true whore of the group was.

He understood that these women were actresses, and from what he had been told this Rose girl was sensational. Jack wouldn't know. After Polly died, going to the cinema wasn't exactly the top of Jack's priority list. Firstly, because Polly worked in a cinema, and secondly because watching movies just seemed like something happy people did, or men with their girlfriends. Jack wasn't happy, and he was alone.

Rose strolled along the courtyard, the middle of which was home to a glorious white fountain, adorned with sculpted cherubs, mystical looking Greek Gods, and all of them pouring vases of glistening water downwards, which was then brought up into the centre of the fountain and shot upwards in a gentle shimmering spray of silver. It truly was a magnificent piece of Art, and Mr Tripoli had made it himself with his father and grandfather. Rose gazed in awe at the tenderly carved and sculpted marble, whilst Emmanuelle sat on the edge of it with 5 men looming over her as she put one of their shirts on. A tall, dark haired soldier had offered her his shirt after an unknown crowd of the drooling dogs stole the upper half of her two piece bikini. No doubt they quickly ran off and put it under their pillow as a keep safe. Rose was still wearing her shawl, the courtyard being more shaded than the beach due to the buildings, the dominating mountain and the angle of the sun.

The rest of the soldiers were gone, and she could hear them disappearing off further into the trees, up a small section of the mountain, and towards a camouflage coloured building made of rusting corrugated metal and recycled pieces of wood and netting. Rose looked at the building, or what she could see of it, from the courtyard. This must have been the soldiers camp, as the building didn't fit in with the rest of the buildings here. It looked like it had been set up overnight, and it looked like it had been set up many times, looking worn out and re-used.

"Hey Rose!" Emmanuelle shouted, bringing the beautiful blonde out of her trance. "We're on in an hour!" She giggled, as one of the soldiers held her arm, kissed his way up the tanned skin, and then began to nibble her ear playfully, like a love-sick puppy, or a hungry dog. "They're just putting the stage together for us."

Rose thanked her and turned away, rolling her eyes over the sound of Emmanuelle's flirtatious tone winning over the sex-starved men around her. The soldiers had quickly realized, pretty much as soon as the yacht pulled up to the pier, who the harlot of the double act was. They winked at Rose and whistled as she walked by, but her gleaming wedding ring warded them off, and so they moved onto the next best thing, and the next best thing was waiting for them with more than open arms.

On the other side of the mountain was a large stretch of beach, private and unused at this time of the day, as the mountain blocked out the rays of the sun. The only time this beach saw light was from around seven o'clock in the evening until sunset. This was the beach where the stage was being built. This same beach had been used for the soldiers to practise shooting targets and defence strategies away from the civilians of the island days before. Although these men had been fighting for several years now, and they were all good fighters (to make it this far alive was proof of that) they could not afford to get complacent. The Germans were thinking up new ways of injuring, killing, and sneaking up on the Allies with each day that passed, and the Allies had to be ready for anything that came their way.

"Hey, Jack!" A deep voice bellowed from behind a large metal structure, half built and looking unsteady. "You couldn't give me a hand with this buddy, could ya?"

Jack dropped the red carpet he was currently rolling out and jogged over to his friend Alexander, who was having a difficult time trying to determine where a certain beam of metal should be placed. "Did you read the instruction manual?" Jack asked, crossing his arms as he inspected the ever-so-slightly swaying structure.

"There's an instruction manual?"

"I'll take that as a no." Jack smiled, sighed, and took the metal from Alexander's hands.

"Where did they get this thing anyway?"

"Demetrius and Desdemona like to use the stage when the island has celebrations. Music, dancing, weddings, that sort of thing." Climbing up a ladder with a measuring tape, Jack measured the distance between two poles that acted as a support for the stage, and jumping back down he measured the metal pole in Alexander's hands. "I'm pretty sure it goes along there."

Alexander took this onboard and ascended the ladder, finally slotting the pole into place with a sigh of relief. "Wouldn't you just love to live like this?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Just... well, everything about this place! It's so calm and peaceful and beautiful... heaven on Earth."

"I guess it's alright... bit too hot for my liking." Jack cracked a half smile and began to walk away towards the carpet he had abandoned.

"_Alright_? Put it this way, I'd rather stay here than go to another war-torn battlefield next week."

These words stopped Jack in his tracks, and turning around he saw Alexander, still up on the ladder, and behind him working away happily, all singing and chatting and smiling were his fellow comrades. But after next week, how many would still be here to sing and chat and smile? "I can't disagree with you there, Alex... but we're fighting the Huns to make sure we can keep the world like this. If Hitler had it his way, this little island would have its population wiped out and the island would get turned into a breeding ground for a brand new Nazi race."

"But after the war... after all of the pain, and death and damage... the world won't be the same. The world will never be the same. This is a new world we're entering, and little pieces of paradise like this one are gonna be rare when we're done with the Huns."

"Seeing what we've seen makes us appreciate the little things more. Fighting for the little things as well as the big things will make enjoying them in the future even more worth while... we just gotta keep going one day at a time. And we have 7 days left of this, so let's enjoy it!"

Alexander beamed brightly. He liked talking to Jack. Jack was one of the more wise and grounded men out of all the soldiers on the island. He wasn't as playful and energetic as he used to be, but he was still Jack, and there was only so much an ordinary man could see until the slightest part of him died.

Alexander went back to fixing the stage, which was almost complete, and Jack began rolling out the shabby red carpet, leading from the grass verge above the beach, down the concrete steps, and along the beach towards the stage. As he rolled out this rough red fabric, he couldn't help but think of the men he had killed, the material running through his hands like blood. A river of red, like a scar on the perfect gold of this beach. Was this the world now? Was this the world that Jack was fighting for? Truth be told, he didn't know what he was fighting for. Not anymore.

He was only counting don't he days until his name was on the list of the dead. He had avoided death too many times, and as punishment for messing with the grand design, God had taken away everyone he loved. His mom and dad, Fabrizio, Rose, Polly, Gordon, and not to mention the countless friends who had been killed in the war.

Heaven was not a place on Earth. Heaven was a myth. It would take a miracle to bring Jack up from the emotional turmoil within his shattered mind.


	10. Chapter 10

The stage was built, the soldiers were waiting loudly but patiently, and the two glorious females that were to grace the stage with their much anticipated presence were on the grass hill, bracing themselves for the descent down the worn concrete steps and onto the red carpet that crossed the beach and led to the stage. Mr and Mrs Tripoli were on the stage announcing the act, getting the crowd warmed up, not that they needed any more warming up under the intense Greek sun. On this side of the island it was more shaded, and it was drawing closer and closer to sunset with only a few hours of shining sun left. The tall, swirling, dark green olive trees swayed gently in an ever so slight sea breeze, and the sea gently lapped up against marble white rocks and golden sand on this crescent shaped beach in the middle of paradise.

Rose was going through the dance steps in her mind whilst Emmanuelle sorted her sparkling silver flapper dress. On the back of this dress was a zip that each girl would unzip for the other, revealing both of them in their bra and underwear one at a time. After that, it was a slow strip tease until the large feather fans were introduced, hiding their entirely naked selves and maintaining at least an ounce of their dignity. Rose knew the dance, and she knew the song, but she still got incredibly nervous on stage, and this wasn't just another play or an ordinary song. It was a strip show for over a hundred aroused men who haven't touched a woman in God only knows how long! Emmanuelle was less nervous, as she would no doubt be performing the routine later on that night with a few of the soldiers and a king size bed.

Alexander and James had managed to persuade Jack to stick around and watch the show. He wasn't feeling particularly jovial, but he didn't want to be the only man walking away from the prospect of two naked women on a stage, singing and dancing. Not only that, they had flown all the way from California to be here for the soldiers. It was only polite he stayed for the show. He didn't understand what all the hype was about. He had never heard the song or even seen the two women in his life. Hopefully they lived up to their expectations and weren't just a couple of whores with their own movie. Some of the men had called Rose the house-wife equivalent of Marilyn Monroe; blonde, feisty, mysterious, quiet when she wanted to be, but full of life and the soul of the party most of the time. Some of the soldiers had placed bets on who could sleep with Rose, even though she was married with kids. Jack didn't think this was particularly funny or manly. It was really quite pathetic. Emmanuelle on the other hand seemed like the kinda girl you could get into bed pretty easily... or at least that is what Jack had heard.

Rose stood on the top step, looking at the stage and the crowd ahead of her, the glowing blue sky and the green ocean. It was like a bride standing at the church door, taking in the sight of the blood red isle she has to walk down, the Vicar at the altar, the family and friends all seated, waiting patiently for the brushing bride to arrive... although to compare what she was about to do to a wedding was absurd. What Rose was doing now was something she was excited about, and it was all in good fun (she took it less seriously than Emmanuelle), but marriage... that was a feeling Rose would never forget. Seeing Richard turn around to face her at the altar, and the way his eyes lit up as he saw her in her wedding dress for the first time. That warm rush of love that surges through your body and goes straight to your head like a glass of wine gulped down in one. That's what Rose felt the day she said, "I do" to Richard. It was a feeling she would never forget, and a feeling she would never feel again. It wasn't that she didn't still love Richard, she did, of course she did. But those first few years of their relationship, the playfulness, the excitement of it all, the adventure. Now... marriage seemed like a repetitive routine which Rose could not escape from. Perhaps that's why she was so excited by the prospect of coming to Greece. A change of scenery and some time apart was what they both needed.

And then it began. A drum roll, a flurry of brass instruments, and then a steady beat of four counts. It was time. The command had been given from the band behind the stage, hidden from sight. Their instrument players had arrived a few hours before the girls as they had to set up and tune their instruments before playing. The population of this small island had increased dramatically over the past few weeks, with the soldiers, the band and the cabaret girls, but the people of the island could not have been more hospitable. And then, without further adieu, that march down the isle that every bride must make began.

Emmanuelle was first, jumping down the steps two at a time, landing on the red carpet like a burning silver comet from space, adorned with gems and glitter, crash landing on this tropical little land with all of its might. By the time she was halfway up the carpet, doing the Charleston and the jitterbug as she went, the men were already going wild. Hats went up in the air, as did some shirts and quite a possibly a man's underwear may have ascended from the cheering crowds. And then, it was time for Rose to descend the stairs, slowly, sultry, sexy. One foot at a time, she took a breath, the band silenced, a piano began to trill, and then she began...

_You've been working hard my baby_

_I've been missing you like crazy_

_Tell me you love me a lot_

_And if you're hot then take it off_

Her voice drifted on the sea breeze, weightless and heavenly, hypnotically silencing all of the men, apart from the odd whistle and cheer. Jack turned his head in an attempt to look behind him and see who the beautiful voice belonged to, but his efforts were wasted. He was in the middle of this throbbing heartbeat, unable to fight against its arousal. But that voice... my God... Jack was entranced.

_Tired of the 9 to 5_

_We're on Earth, but not alive_

_Let's play rough, I won't play soft_

_And if you're hot then take it off_

_Yes if you're hot then take it off... Hit it!_

On the words "Hit it!" The band roared back up again with all their might, the soft piano drowned out. The trumpets, trombones and drums rang out, and Rose ran down the steps, joining Emmanuelle in the middle of the red carpet to act out their first piece of synchronised choreography. A 20s style of dancing, kicking the legs behind yourself, then out in front, hand up in the air, then down by your side. Jerking, spinning, all perfectly time with one another, in tune and in time with the band expertly. Every beat of the drum had a move, and every gliding note of the trumpet or trombone was complimented with a stylized spin.

With the live band now in full swing and both girls running towards the stage, every man was now on fire! Shirts were coming off, and as the women appeared on the stage, they were tossed forward, sweat stained and worn, like dead flowers. One shirt landed at Emmanuelle's feet. She picked it up, shoved down her cleavage in her own elegant manner, and then threw it back out into the crowd. Jack laughed slightly as two men almost had a fist fight over the sweaty garment.

Rose watched the way Emmanuelle played the crowd, and that was something she did admire about her. Emmanuelle was so at home doing this, and she really did make the men feel like part of the action. There was no denying that she was good at what she did.

_Come here now my little honey_

_This feeling inside is kind of funny_

_I've never felt so very hot_

_I guess that I'll just take it off_

And with that, Emmanuelle had turned her back to Rose, and with a cheeky wink to the audience Rose had slowly walked towards Emmanuelle, grabbed the zipper on the back of the flapper dress, a drum roll beginning, slowly building, breath held in suspense within the crowd, and in seconds the zip was down, the dress was tossed out to the soldiers, and another brawl began for it. Jack was laughing hysterically now. How desperate were these guys? But joking aside, he was truly impressed with the blonde girls voice. She was indeed very talented, and they both had well rehearsed choreography to match. He hadn't seen their faces so much, and now that he was here and actually enjoying himself, he wanted to. They had great figures, the blonde being more curved than the brunette. Jack approved.

"You glad you came, buddy?" James shouted through the noise.

"Yeah actually, I am!" Jack replied, smiling.

James was happy to see Jack happy. God knows it had been while. And now, the instruments quietened, the audience grew hushed, clapping along with a more intense drum beat that had begun to echo across the beach.

_Surrender your heart to the beat of the drum_

_Oh look at us honey what have we become_

_Dance all night and sleep all day_

_Brace yourself for midnight play_

_Drinking all the proper stuff_

_Can't stop now, we've not had enough_

_Look at you, my you're so hot_

_I think that you should take it off_

And now, both girls stood stationary, facing out the crowd, about to perform their second piece of synchronised dancing. Jack tapped his foot and clapped his hands to the beat of the drum, truly surrendering, not only to the infectious beat, but melting like a block of ice at the sound of her radiant voice. So quirky and full of joy, and a playful seduction, as if she wasn't even aware of what her voice could do to the men around her. The dark haired girl, in her current state of near nudity was only dancing, but the blonde had the full package. Her voice alone was winning over the crowd, and she was still fully dressed.

Rose looked out to the sea over the heads of the soldiers. She never liked to look the audience in the eye too much. It only reminded her of all the eyes watching her, and she was nervous enough already. Acting for a camera was easy. It was just a lens and a camera man. Acting on stage, as enjoyable as it was, was harder than acting for the camera. She was counting the beats of the drum in her head, preparing herself, the next dance step was just about to start, and then she would . . .

Rose froze on the spot.

Emmanuelle continued to dance, the music still blaring, full of life and energy. Rose still did not move. Emmanuelle looked at her, confused. Had she forgotten the steps? It couldn't be possible; Rose knew it just as well as she did, if not better! Was it stage fright? She was looking into the crowd with a kind of terrified look on her flawless face, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

The soldiers had noticed it now, and they had noticed the look of confusion on the near naked Emmanuelle's face. The band, unable to actually see the girls, continued to play, following their sheet music religiously, knowing the girls had it under control on the stage... only they didn't. For some reason, Rose had lost control. Very calmly and quietly she had just stopped functioning, standing there like a statue.

Emmanuelle couldn't keep it going on her own. Rose was the singer; she was the most important part of the double act. Emmanuelle stopped dancing and walked over to Rose. Putting a concerned hand on her trembling shoulder she asked, "Are you alright, honey?"

And then suddenly, without so much as a whimper, Rose ran off the stage as fast as she could, deserting her partner, no explanation, no obvious reason, no warning... nothing.

All the soldiers watched as Rose ran across the red carpet and towards the grass hill at the opposite end of the beach. She could feel all of their gazes on her, but one was killing her more than the rest.

Emmanuelle watched as Rose ran off, and slowly the band began to die down, one by one each instrument dropped out until eventually Emmanuelle was left alone and undressed.

Silence.

Awkwardly, she piped up, "She's feeling a little bit seasick, I'm sorry guys. We City girls aren't so used to travelling as you guys are!"

The crowd laughed a little, feeling sympathy for Rose rather than wanting to boo her. But one soldiers face never flinched or cracked a smile.

Jack had frozen on the spot. He suddenly felt sick, everyone around him faded into blackness, their voices merging into nothingness.

As soon as she laid eyes on him he knew that he recognised her... and it seemed that she recognised him too.

Rose ran up the concrete steps, almost tripping over her silver heels. Stopping for a moment to pull them off and toss them aside, she then continued to run, now on the grass verge, away from the beach, pushing her way through a thick forest of foreign green trees and tropical plants. The branches pulled at her dress and got caught in her blonde hair as she attempted to make her way back to the town. How was this possible? Her stomach was in knots and she didn't know whether she wanted to scream or sob. Those icy blue eyes staring back at her from the crowd had done this to her. She had gone from standing tall on stage to on her knees, shaking, crying. Older faced perhaps, but the eyes were still the same. Eyes like that can never change. She tried to convince herself that she was wrong, but she knew she wasn't.

It was him... it was Jack.


	11. Chapter 11

The show had stopped much earlier than expected, the soldiers not even getting half of what they wanted, but poor Rose getting much more than she expected. Emmanuelle had gone off to find her second half, awkwardly pulling a silk robe over herself as she ran off of the stage. Jack stood in the talkative crowd, a sea of noise, and there he slowly drowned in his own thoughts, struggling to get up for air. Was it possible? Was it Rose?

An hour had gone by since the incident, and Rose had locked herself in her dressing room. It was a small villa type thing not far from the beach, with tiled walls and pale wooden floors. Mrs Tripoli appeared to be quite the performer back in her day, with old black and white photographs covering the oval mirror, surrounded by old, worn out bulbs. That stage was no doubt her playground when she was a younger. Rose sat and stared at the photographs, lost in her own mind. Thinking about how Desdemona looked now, ancient and withered, compared to the beautiful brunette she was decades before amazed her. It was incredible what time could do to a person. The blonde wife and mother of two with shaking hands and red eyes was but a shadow of the fiery red head 30 years previously.

And then Rose thought of his face, and how much he had changed. She used to think, maybe 10 years before, what he would look like now, in his 30s, but she soon put those thoughts out of her head. Now, they were all she could think about. She saw him for an instant, no more than that, and yet she felt she had stood on that stage and glared at him in disbelief for hours. She never looked at the audience_, never_! As confident and glamorous as she looked on the stage, she was still nervous and timid. Behind the camera was different, she could seduce a camera lens, but seducing an audience was more Emmanuelle's style. And the one time she looked down into the audience, the one time she was feeling rather courageous, her courage was shattered, and her life was turned upside down.

But what if it wasn't him? What if this man just looked like a dead teenage boy from long ago, now with shaved hair, a lot of stubble and a much broader frame. What if?

But those eyes... those eyes cannot be mistaken. Eyes like that can leave your life, but they never leave your mind. Eyes are the one part of a person that never change.

When Rose was 17, brushing her hair in her stateroom onboard the Titanic, Cal placing a heart of ice and chains around her neck, she gazed into her reflection then, and her eyes were empty, despite the luxury she had been born into. And just weeks before now, when Rose was in her California mansion, staring into the bathroom mirror with headache pills in hand, and her husband was nowhere to be seen, not offering a gentle kiss on the forehead or even a glass of water. Surrounded by fame and fortune, and yet she still had that same look in her eyes. She looked at her 40 year old reflection, and she saw her teenage self with a new hair style and less extravagant nightgown.

She had changed outwardly, but inwardly she was still the same. They say that eyes are a gateway to the soul, and in 30 years Rose's soul had never changed. Not really. She was still as unfulfilled as ever, despite all she had achieved.

Just then, a knock at the door brought Rose out of her trance. Realizing she had begun crying again, she quickly dried her eyes and said through the lump in her throat, "Come in."

The door opened, and in from the late afternoon sun came Desdemona. Her white hair was tied up in a neat bun, and a patterned shawl covered her. "Rose, my dear. Are you alright?" She stood there, arms outstretched, and without hesitation, Rose stood up and rushed into them, breaking down once more.

"Desdemona, I can't... I can't do this." Rose choked on her words, tears streaming down her face.

"I know this world well enough to know that what happened out there wasn't seasickness."

Rose looked at her, slightly confused. "Sea sickness?"

"Your friend had to say something to the crowd."

Rose shut her eyes, tears escaping again. She had left Emmanuelle up on that stage all on her own, _and_ she had let all these men down who were fighting for the allied world's freedom. As shaken as she was, she felt rather guilty. "Are the soldiers angry with me?"

Desdemona laughed lightly, "Oh my child, forget about the soldiers, they'll be fine. They've gone this long without a woman in sight, I'm sure they'll get over it." Rose let a little whimper of a laugh out upon hearing this. "It's you I'm worried about." Desdemona added, brushing her fragile fingers through Rose's shoulder length hair. "What happened?"

Rose thought on that question. Thinking about it again just brought back that lump in her throat, and the lump in her stomach. She walked away from Mrs Tripoli and sat down on the chair in front of the mirror, her back turned, but still able to see Desdemona in the reflection. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you... I don't even believe it myself."

Desdemona inspected Rose's face, looking into the mirror, staring deep into her eyes, her hands beginning to shake again. "Who did you see?"

Rose turned her head around quickly, surprised. "How did you know I had seen someone?"

"My dear, I only had to look at your gaze to know that you had seen someone... someone you either didn't want to see, or didn't expect to see."

Rose listened to her, nodding, thinking about how ridiculous she must have looked, freezing on stage like that and then running off. However, given the circumstances, she had good reason for doing so. "Desdemona... I didn't even think he was alive."

"A friend of yours?"

"I suppose you could say that, yes. A very old friend."

"Had he gone off to war to fight, and you assumed her had been killed in action."

"Nothing like that, no... as far as I knew, he died 30 years ago. He died right in front of my eyes. I saw his cold, dead body, I was holding his hands... like ice. I let him go... he was dead... he _was_ dead."

"And you saw him out there with the other soldiers?" Desdemona was deeply interested, the hushed tone of the girl's voice sending a shiver up her spine.

Rose nodded slowly. "I know it was him... I know it was. But how?"

"Maybe there was a mistake? The amount of times I've rolled over in bed and thought that Demetrius had stopped breathing, only to give him a nudge and bring back his monstrous snores." She laughed, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had descended within the room, like a dark storm cloud of memories. Rose did not laugh however. Mrs Tripoli moved closer to Rose, sitting down on the dresser beside her. "How did you lose touch for 3 decades? Surely you could have contacted his family."

"I only knew him for a few days... I fell in love with him in those few days. He had no one in the world and nothing to his name, and just when we thought we finally had it all... tragedy."

"Tragedy?"

"We were..." Rose tried to hold back the tears that were threatening to force their way out of her batting eyelids. "We were on the RMS Titanic when it sank back in 1912."

Desdemona gasped, and murmured something in her own language, blessing herself. "Oh God, those poor souls. You poor girl. You were on that shipwreck? Oh, I cried for hours when I heard the news of that ship! Such a tragic loss."

"We went down with the ship together... he saved me... the water was so cold, and he had been so brave all night protecting me..." Then, the tears escaped, silently trickling down her pale cheeks. "...and I let him die."

Desdemona put a hand on Rose's shoulder and gripped it firmly. "But he's not dead, my darling. He's here. Do you believe in fate?"

Rose shook her head. "No."

"No? Well I think you better start believing it. What has happened here is God's work. He's alive, and you're here, and now you can see one another. This is a rare gift, Rose. In all my time on this Earth I have seen and heard many things... but nothing as wonderful and magic as this."

"But so much time has passed."

"There's nothing better than catch up with old friends, especially after what you two have been through. As a matter of fact, a catch up after 30 years is more than that... it's a reunion!" Desdemona stood up suddenly, smiling widely, her old face creaked and wrinkled, but her eyes sparkling brightly. "You must go and find him, Rose."

"I wouldn't know where to look, or what to say when I see him. I would probably run away again..." Rose thought about what was happening. This was huge. This was the biggest thing to ever happen to her. She couldn't such an amazing gift slip through her fingers, not again. She had let him go once, she wouldn't let him go again. "I do want to see him... I really do."

"And you will! What's his name?"

Rose looked in the mirror, locking eyes with Desdemona, who was growing more and more excited, like a mother preparing her daughter for a first date. "Dawson... Jack Dawson."

The sun was setting now over the island, and the tall shadow of the mountain had cast itself over one half of the island already, plunging the soldiers and natives into darkness. On the other side however, the sky had slowly blurred from a purple-blue shade to a mixture of swirling pink clouds and glowing orange rays of light. The sun was slowly disappearing beneath the horizon, slowly vanishing more and more with each passing second, threatening to shroud this tropical part of the world in darkness.

Jack was sitting on the beach, watching the giant fireball in the sky as it extinguished itself, slipping into the ocean, too far away for anyone to get to it. He came to the beach every night to watch the sun set. The tranquil setting was the perfect place for him to clear his head and relax, but tonight, his mind was on overdrive, racing with unanswered questions, each one pushing past the other to be the first answered. How was she alive? When he came to on the Carpathia, he had been told that there was no girl with him in the Ocean. He was floating on top of a chunk of debris, clinging onto life by a thread, but entirely alone. The passing lifeboat only noticed him because his clouds of breath were spotted by the beam of a torch. When he woke up on the rescue ship without Rose he broke down, and everytime he tried to ask an officer about her, they would ask the usual questions.

"Name?"

"Rose DeWitt Bukater."

"Class?"

"1st class?"

And he always got the same answers. "1st class? She's a bit out of your league then, is she not? I'm sorry mate, no one with that name on here."

After hearing that sickening reply 10 times in one day, Jack gave up. He wasn't well enough to get up and search for her himself. He had been confined to bed, and most of the journey to New York was spent sleeping and drinking boiling hot cups of tea.

But today, as soon as she had stopped dancing, and she was facing the front of the audience, looking out towards the sea, Jack got a good look at her face. At first he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He recognised her, and yet he knew that was impossible. He had never watched any Cabaret acts, and this music, as catchy as it was, wasn't his thing exactly. And then, as soon as she glanced down at him, their eyes meeting, he knew that she was familiar, and by the time she had run off the stage he knew why.

He couldn't believe it, but he had no choice. He had experienced too much heartache in life to ignore this one amazing stroke of fate when it presented itself. To say that a girl who has been dead for 30 years is now alive and well is crazy, but to not find her again and pursue this possible chance of happiness would be utter insanity. That would mean going to find her, and after the way she reacted earlier, that seemed like a bad idea. He had never felt such conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he was excited and ecstatic that she was alive, but he was wracked with nerves and terrified at the thought of losing her again. He did not want that. He decided there and then, as the sun began its final plunge, that he would go and find her.

But there was no need, for just as he stood up and turned to walk away, he saw her walking towards him. A long flowing dress, billowing in the warm breeze, and her blonde hair, shorter now than it once was, blowing across her face.

Jack stood there, speechless. That soft yellow glow outlining her right now, bringing out her slim, hour glass figure, and her prominent cheek and collar bones. She had matured so much. She was taller. Her face was more defined, less round than he remembered, but still as beautiful as ever.

Rose began to slow down now, until finally, when she was about 30 feet away from him, she stopped. He was fatter, but not in a bad way. He looked healthy, well fed. His arms and thighs were chunkier. Muscle had taken over his body, as had the body hair that was evident from his rolled up shirt sleeves and rolled up trouser legs.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back at him, and after taking in a breath to compose herself, she gently spoke. "Hello Jack... it's been a while. Desdemona told me you might be down here."


	12. Chapter 12

There was a shared silence between the two as they absorbed the sight before them. Neither of them could believe their eyes, and yet this was everything they had ever wanted since 1912. Things had changed, and they had moved on in their own ways, but deep down, in both their hearts, they wanted to see each other one last time. Just once.

It had always been in their dreams, or a moment in time when they would drift out of their current situation and float around in their own thoughts, completely unaware of what was going on around them. But now, here they were, and as much as they had hoped and dreamed for this moment, neither of them quite knew what to say.

"You look amazing." Jack finally broke the silence, almost unable to say the words. They came out in a kind of choked whisper. Whether he was close to tears or vomiting, Rose couldn't tell.

Rose ran a hand through her hair bashfully, remembering back 30 years when she was able to follow the long red locks from her head to her waist. Now, the blonde strands went from her head to her shoulders. "I was under contract. I had to obey their demands and change the colour."

"You suit it."

"You think so?"

"Definitely, definitely! Very... very... sophisticated." Jack eventually managed to find the words.

Rose laughed ever so lightly to herself, unable to take her eyes off of him. There was another silence, and Rose ended it by saying the most logical thing that came to her mind. "You look like a man now."

Well, it seemed logical in her mind. Out loud it sounded very silly.

Jack smiled widely, trying not to laugh, his eyes transfixed on his dead lover. "Yeah, I guess three decades can do that to a guy, huh?" He crossed his arms, the muscles in them tensing, his tan showing in the light of the setting sun.

"Of course. Three decades could certainly do that."

"Are you saying I wasn't a man back in 1912? I was the manliest guy on that ship!" Jack put on a pretend serious face, his voice tinged with mock offence.

Rose laughed, louder now, and replied, "Oh please! Your arms were like twigs back then... compared to now anyway."

"I guess I'm kinda under contract too." He lifted the dog tag around his neck, showing it as if it were a prison-shackle rather than something to be proud of. "I _had_ to do this." He lifted his arms and flexed, his large biceps bulging. "After all, someone has to be strong enough to punch the snot out of Hitler."

Rose stared at his arms in a kind of impressed state of awe and admiration. When they made love in the back seat of the car all those years ago, his arms around her felt like the safest place on Earth. But to be held in those arms _now_ would make any girl feel invincible. "Well well well... If Hitler doesn't quiver in his boots over those bad boys I don't know who will."

"If only Cal could see me now." Jack winked an eye and tensed his arm muscles, punching the air.

Rose let out a weak whimper of a laugh, allowing her eyes at last to finally look away from him.

Jack sensed he had touched a nerve, and lowering his arms, taking a step closer, he said, "I'm sorry. Is it too soon to talk about... well, about... back then? We can wait."

Rose heard him, so sincere, so thoughtful, and so considerate. He had waited 30 years for her, and even now he was still willing to wait. "No, we can talk about it whenever you like... it's just... Cal, he's..."

"I know, I know. He has nothing to do with this. So anyway, I hear that you're married now, that's-"

"Cal's dead, Jack."

Jack stood in shock. He did not expect that at all. "Oh... I had... I had no idea."

"Wall Street Crash... 1929... He shot himself."

"My God... I feel bad for joking about him now."

"No, don't, please, I wasn't trying to make you feel bad, I just... I just thought you should know, that's all." Rose took a step closer to Jack, watching his blue eyes, twinkling in the last moments of the sun. "So much has changed, Jack."

"You can say that again." Jack looked Rose up and down, scanning her body with his eyes playfully.

She blushed and crossed her arms in mock annoyance. "I meant you and I... we've changed... and it may be a little too soon to be so flirtatious. As you said I'm-"

"Married, I know." He finished her sentence, feeling like a schoolboy who had just been told off in the politest of ways by the pretty head mistress. As happy as he was for her that she had found love, and a man to protect and provide for her, the faintest hint of disappointment edged his voice. Her husband had done all the things he could never do. "So, how did this happen?"

"Well, I was working in New York as a waitress, and he came in one day, and-"

"No, I... I didn't mean him." Jack cut her off, almost uncomfortably.

"Oh." Rose stopped talking, awkwardly.

There was another silence, less romantic than it was the first time. As rude as it may have been, Jack didn't want to talk about the man who was lucky enough to be married to Rose. There was no point adding insult to injury. "I meant... how did _this_ happen?" Jack walked closer towards Rose, the distance between them only a meter or so. To some reading this, a meter may seem like quite an insignificant distance. They had been worlds apart for 30 years. To be a meter apart now was beyond belief. "How did we end up here, together, after thinking we were dead for so long?"

Rose was speechless. He was there, right in front of her, a fully grown man, and she had no idea how it had happened. She wanted to give him an answer, not only for his benefit but for her own peace of mind. Her head was all over the place. As calm and composed as she seemed on the outside, inside she was a nervous wreck. "I didn't believe fate until now."

"What are the odds, huh? You get famous and come here to the middle of Greece to sing to a bunch of sweaty soldiers, and I am one of those sweaty soldiers?"

Rose laughed, her gleaming smile making Jack suddenly realise what he had been missing. "You make it sound all so romantic!" She giggled.

"Isn't it?"

Rose glanced up, caught off guard by the sound of Jack's now hushed and almost whispering tone. Jack looked into her eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights. Perfectly aware of the vehicle coming down the road towards it, yet not knowing if the car would swerve and avoid it, or hit it head on. Rose didn't know what she was going herself into. On the one hand, as Jack began to slowly walk towards her now, she wanted to push him down onto the sand and kiss him and cry and tell him how much she missed him. But on the other hand, she wanted to have a quick catch up, depart as friends, and go back to her married life. She hadn't had feelings for him up until now, and even now, as Jack was only inches away from her, his hand gently rubbing her arm, she didn't know if these feelings were all due to the intensity of the moment, or if they had been buried all this time. Rose didn't love him, she couldn't. Not like that anyway. As far as she was concerned, he was a corpse on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. He was a soul sitting on a cloud in Heaven. She forced herself to get over him, because she couldn't be in love with a man who had died and was far away in Heaven. But now, as the shadows of trees and tall cliffs stretched across the darkening island, and blue stars began to fade into focus above them, Heaven couldn't be closer if it tried.

"There hasn't been a single day go by where I haven't thought of you, even if it's only for a second. A lot has happened to me over the years. There have been good times... more often than not there have been bad times. But I've always wondered why God didn't just kill me when he had the chance. So many times I have come face to face with death, and yet every time I have walked away while others died. And I asked God so many times why he spared me?Why did he take the people I love and leave me here on my own?" Tears were beginning to build up in his eyes, and to steady himself he took Rose by the hands, stroking them adoringly. "Well now I know why."

Rose listened to him intently, feeling his hands. They had changed so much. They were no longer smooth and young. They were rough, hard working hands, his nails bitten terribly. She saw a single tear roll down his cheek. So much emotion and sentiment was spilling out of him, and Rose was finding it hard to cope. She could sense how much this meant to him. Now, as a fully grown man, Jack was showing more emotion than he ever did as a teenager. Rose was trying her hardest not to cry as well. It hurt seeing him like this. She gripped his hands tighter, listening still.

He looked down at her face. They were finally so close after being apart for so long. Rose had blossomed into such a radiant woman, and Jack couldn't ignore it. "Now I know why I'm here. I am alive because I had to see you again. I've been kept alive these past 30 years because God knew all along that we'd meet again. I dunno why he had to separate us in the first place. Maybe it was to teach us a lesson... to show us that we truly don't know what we have until it's gone." He brought his hand up to her face, and now, it was real. This wasn't a dream. She was here, he was with her, and everything seemed to be falling into place. For once in Jack's life, things were going his way. If all his heartache was to prepare him for this moment, then it had all been worth it. "Now I know what I lost Rose... I lost you. And I never want to lose you again... never."

And with that, Jack leaned in for a kiss. Rose stood in a state of disbelief. She didn't know whether she wanted him to or not. She understood his feelings, but she didn't know if she felt exactly the same way. Jack seemed very emotional, it wouldn't be right to let him kiss her. Not only that, but she was married. She couldn't let him, as much as she might have wanted this to happen in the past, this was the present, and she had to think realistically. Rose turned her head away, and Jack stopped, opening his eyes in confusion.

"Jack, I'm married. I can't do this. I'm so sorry." She turned around and ran off, the tears that she had been afraid of shedding in front of him now streaming down her face in the darkness of the beach.

"Rose! Please, come back! I'm sorry, come back!" Jack shouted, and he shouted, and he begged, and eventually he fell to his knees, sobbing and screaming into the night sky, watching Rose vanish into the distance yet again. "Rose!"

It wasn't that Rose didn't care about him, and as soon as she turned around and ran she regretted it. It was the confusion and conflicting emotions inside of her that scared her. Jack was so emotional, and so certain that God had brought them back together and that this was meant to be. The way Rose saw it, something wonderful had happened by complete coincidence that was going to turn everything in her life upside down, and she didn't know if she could cope with that right now.

Jack needed someone in his life. He needed someone to love and someone to love him. He had been married once, and although he loved Polly, he knew deep down that he was trying to get over Rose. And now that he had Rose, it seemed that she didn't want him. As Jack sat on the dark beach all alone, sobbing heavily, he took his dog-tag from around his neck, held the shining piece of metal tightly between his fingers, and pulling up his trouser leg, he began to cut away furiously at his skin, watching the bright, hot blood trickle down his leg and ruin the perfect sand.


End file.
